A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Eight
by BuckeyeBelle
Summary: NEST and the Autobots find Soundwave's hideout, suicide throws its shadow across the Mission City base, and Optimus begins to find his way as a peacetime Prime. Other transformations both unexpected and extraordinary occur.
1. Chapter 1

[A.N. Transformers belongs to Hasbro and whoever they have allowed the rights to it, which certainly doesn't include me. No money has been made from this fanfic and no copyright infringement is intended. All I own are my Ocs.

WARNINGS: _Wartime violence. Language._ Suicide/suicide attempt. Mention of a past rape. Mention of mech pregnancy. This story contains religious and spiritual discussion drawn from various religious paths both real and fictional. Those who wish not to be exposed to religions other than their own should turn back now.

This is the tenth story in The Sidhe Chronicles series. Previous stories are "Swords and Jewels," "The Sidhe Chronicles 2: Dark of the Moon," and the first seven stories of "A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime." This is a separate AU from the "Come on up for the Rising" verse.

"Normal speech"

::Silent speech (Internal radio or through a bond)::

Scene Break: -Sidhe Chronicles-

Thanks to my beta and co-author, Vivienne Grainger. /A.N]

-Sidhe Chronicles-

A curious bot by nature, Jazz was not in a position to indulge that trait at the moment. What he could see right now was mostly miles and miles of miles and miles.

All of those miles were laid out in neat squares of cropland; sometimes circles of young plants within the squares were already well-started under the ministrations of automated sprinkler systems. Here and there, a dusting of adventurous volunteers greened the soil, though not for long; spring planting was soon to come to the croplands of Nebraska. The volunteers would be plowed under.

Jazz' ride did not know that. Jazz, hiding in Warp's processor, did not enlighten the youngling that he had a passenger beyond the three seated within his alt form. Had he done so, he did not know what Warp's reaction might be...but Jazz knew beyond doubt that the youngling was no more than a child conscript who would have come to the Autobots during the Christmas raid, were he not so terrified of Soundwave.

Warp had not been successful at hiding his wish to defect from the former Decepticon Communications Officer, who had made him watch that notorious clip of the Wreckers dismembering a Decepticon with their bare servos just before the raid.

Jazz wondered if Soundwave had not done that in real fear for the youngling's safety. The saboteur had not been there for the Battle of Chicago, and neither had Prowl. But Mirage and Bumblebee, who had, described an energon bath in which quarter had been neither asked nor given.

The Battle of Chicago was only the second time Jazz knew of that Optimus had ordered "no mercy." The other had been Tyger Pax.

The Prime's reason for both those orders was the same—no safe way existed to deal with prisoners, and any surviving 'Con posed an immediate threat to civilians caught in the war zone.

But Jazz knew Soundwave very well; knew that while the assumptions Sounders based his logic on weren't what most would use, they weren't the product of disordered processing, either. Jazz wouldn't have been surprised to find that his opposite number genuinely believed there was a great chance Warp would be killed out of hand if he defected.

Warp's abilities, though, meant that here and now Jazz had endured too many warp jumps for comfort, all of them timed to avoid energon detectors. Detectors straddled every state border, and they'd so far crossed four of them. Any time two interstates crossed, there were four more detectors; Warp had jumped halfway across Colorado to avoid the hot mess that was Denver and its four interstates.

Jazz had never enjoyed that mode of travel, and even without a body to be indignant about it, still did not. He felt as if he had to purge his tank, though he presently had no tank to purge, and he had a desperate need to keep that discomfort to himself.

He spared a thought for Rumble and Buzzsaw, back at base. What would they, once his symbionts, do when Soundwave was captured? Probably just what they had done to this point: continue to enjoy life, concentrate on earning greater freedom, and egg on Sideswipe and Sunstreaker in their pranks. Thank Primus they had no contact with Brains and Wheelie...yet.

The cassettes weren't younglings, but it was apparent to anyone who heard their stories that their sparklinghoods had been brutally curtailed. Not by Soundwave, whom they defended as a good host; for all Jazz knew, that was true. But they had still been very young when Megatron rose to power, and no one caught in that circumstance had a sparklinghood to call his own.

Still, it was their presence on base that was indirectly responsible for Arturo Melendez's current predicament. He sat in the back seat, not quite a prisoner: Wilburn was piled into the opposite corner keeping an eye on him, while Smith rode shotgun.

To Jazz' intense frustration, the other humans' mistrust of Arturo kept them from discussing anything that might have been helpful. In point of fact, they discussed nothing at all. Arturo napped, but the other two remained alert, if silent.

It made for a long seven hours, broken only by one twenty-minute rest stop.

At York, Nebraska, they left interstate 80 and turned north. "What are you doing?" Wilburn said to Warp's projection.

"Avoiding Omaha," Warp replied. "This way we'll pass only small towns, nothing bigger than about thirty thousand humans, and I can go faster without being observed."

Only Jazz knew that in the youngling's mind, the rest of that statement was, "...so I won't give Soundwave any surprises, which is to be avoided at all costs." And back of that was Warp's conviction that if Soundwave threw him out, he would have to go to the Autobots, who disassembled Decepticons with their bare hands, or starve.

The rubidium icing on the oil cake was that Warp wasn't looking forward to going fast on the back roads, which was totally contrary to any youngling Jazz had ever known (whether in an adult upgrade, _vide_ Sideswipe, or not). This youngling needed to be taken to Mission City, where he too could get back his sparklinghood.

Jazz' new knowledge of Warp meant that now he had three beings to worry about getting out of this situation alive: himself, Warp, and Arturo Melendez, in rough order of least-to-greatest concern. Unless extreme bad luck intervened, it was unlikely Soundwave would even know Jazz was present; and as for Warp, the youngling had managed to stay alive since Chicago, so he had at least rudimentary self-preservation skills.

Arturo, though, was coming in as Soundwave's mole within NEST, therefore suspect. Arturo was human, therefore fragile. Suspect + fragile + Soundwave = very bad.

The other two humans seated in Warp's alt form could, so far as Jazz was concerned, take their lumps. James Smith and Tom Wilburn had willingly allied themselves to Soundwave, and were already complicit in the Beaverton murders of ten people, Smith's co-workers, eight months ago. Jazz couldn't find it in himself to give a single lonely frag about what happened to either.

By the time they reached Blair, Nebraska, it was five-thirty AM, and every farmhouse they passed had lights on. The speed limit imposed by the tiny town itself annoyed Warp, Jazz understood; he would have warped through it, but Soundwave forbade the youngling to use his gift where the humans might remark upon it.

Blair behind him, Warp turned onto a long, straight stretch of blacktop. Smith and Wilburn both relaxed a bit; they must, Jazz realized, be close to their destination.

The spymaster opened the bond link to let Prowl know where he was. He dared not keep it open longer than it took to transmit his location, but if they were found out, at least his mate would know where to start looking.

Warp made a final turn onto a two-lane road, and pulled off that into a driveway which penetrated the dense curtain of an evergreen windbreak; the trees formed a hollow square around a farmhouse and a large barn.

The driveway passed through the windbreak again, arriving at the grounds of a private airport. Human workers were unloading boxes from a truck and securing them inside a cargo plane.

From Warp, Jazz discovered that the cargo plane was Lugnut, hiding in plain sight. The human employees of the air freight company were not aware that it was a front for Soundwave's gang.

Warp rolled into the barn, and waited until Flatline closed the entrance behind him before he opened his doors: a pointed hint to his passengers to get out. Once they did so, he ejected their bags from his subspace with much more alacrity than caution, and transformed, shaking stiffened joints and stretching aching cables.

His warp generator was still running hot from that last jump, and his fuel indicator was edging towards red. But Jazz knew that a good stretch was the best the youngling could do for himself before reporting to Soundwave.

The side door opened and Jazz came face-to-face with his old adversary—he had wondered if would know Soundwave anywhere no matter what the Decepticon's formatting. He did.

Soundwave did not so much as greet the youngling before initiating a scan of Warp.

Jazz' own fault, the spec ops bot knew. The cassettes had always come back with a few of Jazz' little surprises whenever they broke into the Autobot's data systems, and Soundwave was accustomed to dealing with their unwanted additions when they came home. Hiding in a partition full of swap files, Jazz killed all his processes which monitored Warp's sensor suite, then prayed while the scan swept the partition. After a moment, the scan moved on, and Jazz carefully poked his helm back up by re-initiating those sensor monitors.

Soundwave's alt was the picture of a retired pilot who had done well enough to start his own business. Middle-aged, he wore jeans, cowboy boots and a brown work jacket over a white shirt and blue tie; his optics were hidden under a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses below a gimme cap that proclaimed "Mach 1 Air Freight."

He wouldn't have been out of place anywhere within a hundred miles. Like any good spy, he assumed the cover which let him walk down the street without anyone stopping to look at him twice.

"You are Sergeant Melendez."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you have any idea how illogical your story is?"

Jazz perked up. Soundwave had never concerned himself with learning to speak foreign languages before. Pit, his spoken Cybertronian was usually nothing more than a direct translation of the glyphs he transmitted. He had left most conversation to his symbionts, whose job it was to interact with the rest of the world on Soundwave's behalf. Jazz suspected his association with humans—Gould father and son, and now these two—had influenced the Soundwave Jazz had known for vorn, and that influence had changed Sounders. And there would be added unknown quantities; Jazz stepped on his curiosity and had to stand on it with both peds.

Melendez replied, "Logic went right out the window about four years ago, sir. The impossible happens every day now."

Soundwave's alt did not change expression. "You wished to report to me in person. Report. And, Sergeant Melendez? I advise you to be believable the first time."

"Yes, sir. The Autobots have Buzzsaw and Rumble. One of the Mexican cartels was going to auction them off, but Bumblebee took a team down there and extracted them." Very slowly, Arturo reached into his pocket and drew out two printouts. "I took these pictures with my phone camera while no one was looking."

Soundwave unfolded the printouts and stared at them, processing what still must have seemed impossible to him. "What is their present condition?"

"They seemed OK to me. I haven't had that much contact with them, sir, but I've seen them out several times and as far as I can tell, they're fine."

"What is their status?"

"Prisoners, sir. Under guard 24/7," Arturo replied.

"But they are allowed outside."

"Well, yes, sir, for about an hour every day. They let Buzzsaw fly around Excellion when the Aerialbots can watch him."

Jazz saw Soundwave's fields even out. "At what time?"

"Different every day, sir. I don't know why. I don't have anything to do with the prisoners, sir."

Soundwave pocketed the printouts. "Warp, you are about to redline. Go refuel and recharge. The rest of you, come with me."

Jazz cursed at losing his bird's-eye view of the debriefing, but Warp was too hungry to do anything except head straight for the energon as soon as he had permission to do so, and it would have been beyond suspicious if Jazz had influenced him to do anything else. The mechling happily consumed a couple of cubes.

Those cubes had been stolen from Jazz' own people. He put that thought, and the anger it generated, aside; it was not in Jazz, who had been a hungry mechling himself back in the day, to begrudge Warp his fuel. The rest of them, however...he wouldn't have minded seeing Sounders, Lugnut, Flatline, and Blitzwing on the short rations everyone at Mission City had endured for three long lunar cycles now.

Once his tank was full, Warp hit the washracks to get rid of the road grit, then headed straight for his berth.

Jazz fumed. There would be no more intel gathered until after the kid had recharged.

Blitzwing was nowhere in sight—out delivering freight, presumably. Flatline worked at a console on the other side of the barn, hardlined to it so Jazz couldn't tell what he was doing over there. But he was paying no attention to Warp.

The three humans followed Soundwave to the farmhouse, where presumably Soundwave kept an office.

Jazz seriously considered jumping from Warp into the power lines and finding his way into the farmhouse from there. He was worried for Arturo; one misstep here would net Jazz' agent a fifty-five gallon drum full of cement. But if the meeting went south, there was nothing Jazz could do about it, except make the situation worse if he revealed himself. He would have to trust Arturo's guts and good sense.

He considered what he had so far seen of Warp. Younglings possessed most of the capabilities that they would have as adults, but their power level was limited to that which their lighter, less powerful frames could safely tolerate. Warp should only have been able to jump short distances, and with little additional mass. He would also have had a cooldown period to allow his warp generator to rest between attempts, were things normal.

Youngling limiters adjusted themselves with growth and increased maturity, and if they hadn't become obsolete by then, would be removed when the youngling was ready for adult upgrades. Limit breaks were possible in life-and-death situations, but certain parameters set by the youngling's parents or cohort had to be met first.

Upon finding Warp, Megatron's first order had been to disable his limiter. Soundwave had done so, but had also taught Warp to recognize and prioritize alerts thrown by overstressed systems. To Warp's credit, he habitually kept things things out of the red zone, unless it was a matter of life and death, or he was under orders.

Last night, the three humans had not been a very heavy load for Warp to carry, but he had made several jumps in quick succession, including that very long bypass of Denver. Jazz observed as the youngling set his self-repair routines to run at the highest priority, and slipped into a deep recharge.

As a result, his sensors powered down, leaving Jazz cut off from the outside world as well.

Jazz turned his concentration inward. First, he made certain his firewalls were flawless. Then, he turned to his bond link. ::Prowler, you there?::

::I am. What is your situation?::

::Ah'm fine, but if the kid was in recharge any deeper he'd be in stasis lock, so Ah'm spinnin' my wheels right now. We got a child soldier here. Tag him as an unwilling conscript. Only reason he ain't jumped the fence is that Sounders showed him that vid clip of the Wreckers in action at Chicago.::

::Ah, I see. I will make certain that all our combatants are aware of his status.::

::We got Flatline, the two humans, and Sounders here right now. Blitzy's off someplace bein' a cargo plane, an' Lugnut was gettin' loaded when I arrived, so he may be gone too. The name of the outfit is Mach 1 Air Freight, by the way. Don't look like the air freight company's regular employees come over here. Warp don't think they know they're part of a front for Sounders.::

::Understood.::

Neither of them mentioned Melendez. If the situation soured, Jazz wanted to keep open the possibility of convincing Soundwave that he had hitched a ride without Arturo's knowledge.

Jazz said, ::Way I see it, we got two options, either hit 'em here or wait for them to hit us and lay a trap for them.::

::True. I will present the positive and negative aspects of both options to the Prime.::

::OK. I'll report in soon as I got anything to report.::

Some of Jazz' disgruntled boredom at being sidelined by a sleeping youngling bled through, eliciting a glyph of amusement from the cyberninja, who could sit quietly for joor without a sign of discontent.

Jazz closed the bond link; Prowl reported to Optimus.

When the young warper was securely in deep recharge, Jazz took just enough control of the mechling's frame to online a few of his passive sensors. He had to leave his optics dimmed and shuttered, but he now had audio and electrical field data. Not that there was anything to monitor, but at least he was no longer boxed, a situation that any conscious Transformer found disconcerting.

In fact, the Decepticons had sometimes tortured prisoners by boxing them but leaving them aware. Most bots could tolerate a few joor of that; Jazz had once endured a full orn before being rescued, but he freely admitted he had been able to do so and keep his sanity only because he had a bond link. An unbonded bot who was not a spark-split twin would have gone irreparably insane in that situation.

When the Autobots had to box a dangerous prisoner to keep him confined, Ratchet made sure that mech was in deep medical stasis first, unaware of his situation or the passage of time.

Yes, thought Jazz, Ratchet had his flaws, but cruelty wasn't one of them.

As the day wore on, Jazz waited patiently: patiently, anyway, for Jazz. He knew when Lugnut took off, but Blitzwing hadn't yet returned.

Most espionage missions consisted of quietly gathering intelligence―watching, listening, remaining undetected. It had been a difficult skill for an active, curious bot to acquire, but necessary for his chosen work. Jazz, practical mech that he was, had acquired it. Putting it to work while he was hitching along with Warp wasn't difficult; its exercise was somewhat unrewarding for a mech of Jazz' temperament, but so what, he thought. It was the result that counted.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Once Jazz damped the bond and returned to surveillance, Prowl took a moment to ground and center himself, returning from anxiety for his bondmate to a place of serenity. Then he left their quarters and crossed the commons to Admin.

All the stations were fully staffed. Optimus stood in Admin, with Lennox, Graham, Zain, Glasco, Sideswipe, and Ironhide. All of them were studying satellite data for the area of Nebraska where Jazz now...did whatever Jazz was doing. Prowl realized he didn't know what that might be; being trapped inside Warp's frame would necessarily limit his bondmate, but probably not stop him.

"Prowl," Optimus said, for the humans' benefit. "Report."

"Jazz is on-site, a guest of the warper, who remains unaware of his presence. Jazz' host is in recharge after the trip, so Jazz' activities are limited at the moment. Sergeant Melendez is presently being interrogated by Soundwave. The area in which Soundwave's headquarters is located is just as deserted as the satellite pictures show. A battle staged there will have far less collateral damage than will be accrued if we allow him to attack us here."

Lennox nodded curtly. "No word on how the interrogation is going?"

"No, as Jazz is outside Soundwave's office."

Lennox nodded once more, sharply, and turned back to the satellite pictures. "That runway...is it too short for the Aerialbots?"

"No," said Optimus, "not at all. They can transform as they land, if need be, but they all have VTOL capability as well."

"A HALO drop of the Pretenders might make more sense for first insertion," Lennox said.

Prowl nodded. A HALO parachute insertion (High Altitude, Low Opening) was practically _made_ for Pretenders. They were nowhere near as prone to debilitating damage as a human.

Zain said, "I don't know how many of my guys have jump training. Since we can teach each other by sharing a file, though, all we'll need is a practice jump or two."

"What do your guys weigh?" Lennox asked. "They might be too heavy to parachute safely."

"It's not weight alone," said Graham, who had never told anyone that he sometimes went skydiving on weekends. "It's being able to fit the straps. I don't see any problems with that; we might be able to use tandem chutes for Zain's men."

"Yeah, and while all of our guys have jumped except Michael, only five of us have had HALO training."

"I'll make a call to Nellis and see about some jump refreshers and HALO training for both S-14 and NEST," Lennox said, making a note to himself among his doodles; he remembered his own HALO training and quoted his instructor: "Nobody's first HALO should be on a mission."

Optimus said, "So right now we have three possible insertions: ground, HALO, and fastrope. It's true that the farmhouse is surrounded by a thick windbreak of trees. Could they provide cover, provided Soundwave does not sweep the area regularly?"

"If we had full-body RFID shields," said Zain, "we'd be safe from even that. "

"One my size will be prohibitively expensive."

Graham grinned at Optimus' deadpan delivery. "Truly, no, sir. It would require only several thousand yards of aluminium foil." He waited for them all to stop laughing. "However, stealth is very likely out of the question, I fear; time-on-target planning renders it unnecessary as well."

"Yes, I think so. NEST, the Pretenders, and our frontliners can carry the day, if we all arrive at the same time."

"Essentially," Prowl said, "we become a Rapid Response Unit. We will need the Aerialbots to deal with Lugnut and Blitzwing, the Sisters can come in by road with the rest of us...we'll need to scan farm equipment, but that can be done more easily when we are at Offutt."

"Say, twenty-four hours after landing at Offutt, to get the job done? I will also talk to the tractor gestalt; they might be willing to share alt-scans with us." Optimus smiled.

Prowl said, "We cannot all go in as tractors. That will cause talk."

"Yes. We will be quite busy during our diurnal cycle at Offutt."

However, he held the title of tactician for the Prime, and so Prowl said, "Lugnut and Blitzwing are formidable fighters. It would be wise to deploy some full-sized bots with the same time-on-target as the Pretenders."

"Yes," Optimus agreed.

Lennox and Graham exchanged a Look, as did Glasco and Zain. "That's best, I think," Graham said.

Ironhide said, "Chromia claims her right to Flatline."

Zain asked, "What does that mean?"

"Flatline once dealt the Sisters an unforgivable insult. As he has already been convicted in absentia of a very long list of capital crimes, it is their right to administer justice out of hand," Optimus explained.

"That sounds...medieval," Zain said.

"Flatline received that sentence many years before your medieval era began." Optimus, stately, folded his servos on the desk in front of him.

"He's bad news even compared to the rest of them, then?" Zain asked.

"Very much so. His list of war crimes may not have been as extensive as Shockwave's, but it was not for lack of trying. Many of the Decepticon medics chose the faction in order to have free rein in their laboratories. Some of the incidents reported from the concentration camps of your Second World War compare to what those medics did—and compare favorably, I may say. The specific crime which led to his death sentence was the kidnapping of a group of newsparks for purposes of experimentation. He was already a marked mech, and had been so for several vorn, when he ran afoul of the Sisters."

Lennox said, "You don't have to worry about us getting in Chromia's way, then."

Zain took his cue from Lennox' tone of voice. "I'll give my boys orders to leave Flatline to the Sisters unless they get attacked, or it looks like the 'Con is going to escape. Even then, if possible, they'll leave his final disposition to them."

Ironhide smiled: not a cheerful smile. "He won't escape."

"All right," Prowl said, "Flatline is the Sisters' lawful prey, and thus we will not concern ourselves with him. Ironhide, would you convey to the Sisters, please, that I am available should they wish to consult with me."

There was an intense silence on Ironhide's part, and then he said, "Done, Prowl. They thank you."

Prowl nodded, and changed the subject. "Blitzwing concerns me. As we know, he has at minimum three personalities. I believe that a medic should accompany us, not merely to treat any wounds incurred on the battlefield, but specifically to treat Blitzwing, and to sedate him if need be." He gave another nod to Lennox. "Some humans seem to suffer from Blitzwing's malady. I believe it is labeled 'dissociative personality disorder' or 'multiple personality disorder' among you."

"Lord," Lennox said, quite irreverently. "Who might we meet, under his plating?"

"One personality is very random. If that personality surfaces during our raid, Blitzwing may well dance, or even pull his strateka board out of subspace and offer one of our troops a game. That is why I wish a medic to be present; I can't justify taking aggressive action against someone who..."

"Isn't playing with a full deck," Sideswipe offered, and sent the other bots a definition of that expression.

"Yes. The next personality is filled with rage, and because of it, a formidable opponent. Ironhide and Prime working together might take him down, or either of you with Superion. That personality, even once subdued and shackled, is quite dangerous, and another reason to wish for a medic's presence.

"The third personality is brilliantly logical, and very cold. That seems to be Blitzwing's core personality, as before the war, he was a very well-thought-of scientist."

"And in those last two phases," Optimus said, "he is extremely dangerous. I do not believe that you are wrong in your assessment, Prowl. We should treat Blitzwing as the most physically dangerous among Soundwave's crew. He is second in our priority to capture, Soundwave being first."

"And Lugnut?"

"Lugnut," said Prowl, "is capable of inflicting a fair amount of collateral damage on human structures, and his sheer size makes him dangerous to humans. By himself, he will require double-teaming by our frontliners. Because he is sane, however, he is not as dangerous as Blitzwing."

"He was almost too much for me alone when Diarwen and I met him on our journey to Washington from Chicago," Optimus said. "Certainly, two of us will be required to take him."

"As for the warper," Prowl said, "Jazz tells me he is a conscripted child soldier, who has had his youngling limiters removed."

Lennox growled at about the same time Ironhide did. Prowl smiled at them both, and continued, "To ensure his loyalty, Soundwave exposed him to the footage of the Wreckers tearing that Decepticon to pieces in Chicago. Otherwise he might have defected during the Christmas raid. He'll be very frightened of us, and that might compel him to be dangerous. But he seemed to go out of his way not to hurt anyone during that raid, so when we encounter him, we should work very hard to reassure him."

"And Wilburn and Smith?" Lennox said.

Zain's servo, obeying orders he did not know he'd given it, tightened on the paper cup of coffee he was holding. It developed a catastrophic leak. He really had to stop drinking that stuff, he thought to himself; it didn't taste like anything much, and it did nothing for a Cybertronian nervous system. He mopped up after himself.

"Without direct orders from me, my troops will not open fire on a human unless the life of another human is at risk. Ordinarily, humans are no threat to us, and in most cases where they do present a danger, it is politically expedient for us to leave them to NEST." Optimus looked around the room and continued, "May I remind everyone that these men are facing ten counts of premeditated murder? They committed those crimes in Oregon, which presently endorses the death penalty. If they are not given that penalty, they will certainly spend the rest of their lives in prison."

"I'll put it to my boys that it might be kinder to shoot them," Zain said, "and then tell them what they did. That way they'll survive."

"Okay. Good, in fact.—If Smith and Wilburn are using their holoform masks, we'll need to have Jazz to transmit their current appearance to everyone's comm units, and we will prioritize capture over neutralization," Lennox said. "Do we know whether the other humans on the site are complicit?"

"Jazz says not; he has not observed them entering into Soundwave's office or otherwise having anything to do with Flatline or Warp," Prowl replied.

"We should probably wait for further intel from Jazz before doing much more," Optimus said. "And for hearing back from our director, of course. Any more issues?"

No one had any, and the meeting broke up.

Some persons, having duties in Admin, returned to their usual places; the rest dispersed to their duty stations. Optimus took a last look at the maps of the airstrip and its surrounding area, but there was little more they could accomplish without more intel. He sent a ping to Sam Witwicky's phone.

A couple of rings later, his brother Prime picked up. "Hello, Optimus."

"Sam, I must ask to borrow Bumblebee for a mission."

"OK, this is a thing I need to ask him myself, right?"

"Yes. It is a necessary favor, but a favor nonetheless. Whether or not he can grant it will depend on his ability to arrange security for you and your family while he is away."

Sam juggled the phone briefly; Optimus could hear Danny fussing. "I won't give him any trouble with that. Whatever he thinks is best."

"Thank you, brother."

"No problem. Oh, crap, Danny! Talcum powder everywhere!"

Optimus chuckled. "I will leave you to your son, then."

"Thanks. I'll talk to Bee just as soon as I get Danny squared away here."

Sam was as good as his word. As soon as he got Danny powdered and diapered and settled in his crib, he told Brains and Wheelie, "I need to go talk to Bee for a minute. Keep an eye on Danny until either Carly or I get back, OK?"

Brains jumped up on the table beside the crib, transformed to his laptop alt mode, and started playing what looked to Sam like a screensaver consisting of tumbling, brightly colored geometric shapes. The repetitive video amused very young sparklings. The small bot had discovered it that it had the same effect on Danny—after Carly explained that Brains would have to adjust the contrast because tiny babies' eyesight did not fully develop until they were about three months old.

Sam tiptoed out of the nursery, then caught a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror and groaned. He looked like a refugee from a powder factory.

Whatever Optimus had wanted sounded important, so he satisfied himself with going outside and shaking himself free of as much of it as possible, then found Bee in his usual spot at the curb in front of the apartment.

Bee swung his door open as Sam approached. "What...is it...Sam?"

"Optimus wanted to know if you would be available for a mission."

"Is this what...you wish?"

Sam phrased it carefully. "It sounds important. I don't think Optimus would have asked if it weren't."

"Of that...I have no doubt. Still, it is...very soon...after...Carly...returned home."

"Yes. Dr. Parker is keeping a very close watch on her, and she sees her OB/GYN regularly as well. We'll be fine."

"Yes. I know. It was still...very frightening. I...find...I hesitate...to let...any of you...out of my sight. It is...unreasonable...I know. But...for the...war...to be over...and then...to almost...lose...any...of you...anyway?"

"Believe me, Bee, I feel the same way. But Carly isn't going to like it if we put our lives on hold because of what almost happened, you know?"

"You are...right, Sam. I'll...find someone...competent...to watch over you...while I am...on assignment."

"I know you will. You wouldn't settle for less."

"No," said Bee, and there was no hesitation in his speech at all. "I would not."

End Part 1


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The morning after Jazz first reported from Soundwave's base of operations, Prowl said at the day's meeting, known among the humans present as The Place of Coffee and Doughnuts, "We need to discuss some of the possibilities we may encounter when we raid Soundwave's hideout."

"Yes?" said Optimus, ceding the floor to him.

"First, the human workers. They cannot be injured unless they proffer violence to one of us. They are not armed as part of their jobs, but they may carry sidearms, or have access to rifles in their vehicles."

"NEST can frisk 'em, herd 'em to one side, and keep watch on 'em," Lennox offered.

"I believe it might be best to have a Pretender or two among that force," Prowl said. "These are, after all, men who throw freight all day. They are very fit, and likely quite muscular. We also do not know how many there might be; a quick look at Mach 1 Air Freight's employment-tax records shows me that they often hire by the day. There are only four employees working there permanently."

No one asked Prowl how he got that quick look, which was just as well. The State of Nebraska never knew it had been hacked.

"FAA records show that only Lugnut and Blitzwing use the airstrip, so we don't need to worry about civilians landing in the middle of the raid. We might need to think about what to do if one or both of them are not present when we launch."

"No way to monitor the company's records?" Lennox said.

"Assuming Soundwave's constant oversight, there is not; if we assume his absence and he is present, we tip him off. Jazz' skill is such that he _might_ be able to monitor the business telephone and email unobserved, but mine is not. If Director Mearing will permit me access to Echelon's data for the business, I can perhaps locate a time when human presence is minimal, and both Lugnut and Blitzwing are on the ground."

"Done," Optimus said. "I have asked her for the last month's surveillance, and to continue our access for another 30 days as well."

Lennox said, "How much lead time would you be able to give us?"

"Eight to twenty-four hours," Prowl said.

"Time enough." NEST's commander relaxed.

Ratchet said, "I've thought about who would be best to send from the medical staff, and for reasons of size, I've nominated myself. If either Blitzwing or Lugnut need medical attention, Percy and First Aid aren't really big enough to handle them."

"Very well," Prowl said. "Offutt is almost 1300 miles from here, so let's say three hours' flight time, and an hour on the roads. If our window is eight hours, that gives us four hours for mop-up."

"Should be enough time," Lennox said. "Don't you think?"

"Yes," said Optimus. "It is only the energon baths like Tyger Pax and Chicago which take longer."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The Commons swarmed with humans and Cybertronians, in and out of uniform, as usual for a weeknight. All the lights were still on in Admin, and the brass, Autobot, human, and Pretender alike, seemed deep in consultation. The younglings and teenagers were not privy to that, but most had grown up military brats. No one needed to tell them that something big was going down.

The teenagers staked out an area on the bot side of the commons just outside Jolt and Shad's quarters. Their hangout, defined by several bot-sized couches and a big-screen TV, sported a bot-sized narrow table which provided a convenient enclosure for two vending machines, one for snacks and one for drinks, and a small fridge which supported a microwave. Inside this enclosure lay a long human-sized sofa and a scattering of chairs, as well as a couple of tables.

The teenagers liked it for its relative privacy; its location on the bot side of the commons made it a place where parents "just wandering by" would stick out like sore thumbs.

The parents liked it because they could see everything going on in there. Both sides figured they had the better end of the deal, and neither enlightened the other as to their perceived advantage.

Right now, Obsidian was sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, working on a programming project.

A loud rhythm approached, and Obsidian looked up to see Miko, Raf, and Jack. The sound came from Miko's ever-present earbuds, and he reminded himself that her companions did not hear it. From their, and her, point of view, she kept her music to herself.

Jack dropped his backpack on an overstuffed human chair and sat on the floor beside it. He pulled out a thick tome whose spine read "American Government" and began to read, occasionally taking notes.

Soon to graduate, Jack, like most of his classmates, found himself in a tooth-and-nail fight for a limited number of scholarships: it was now or never for getting the grades up.

Those who didn't make some effort to excel scholastically? They doomed themselves to problems that would haunt them for decades: crippling student debt, likely not paid off until their own children were ready to go to college, or a lifetime of dead-end jobs.

Jack was not in any way a bookworm, but neither was he a jock whose college career had been guaranteed on the field. He intended to have one of those scholarships, sleep, family time, competition from the geeks, and everything else be damned. His mother, June, as well as Miko and Raf, had been drawn to Team Jack as well—before an exam, they rallied around to help him study and cheer him on. (June turned a blind eye to the number of energy drinks he consumed, though that was largely possible because Jack himself limited them. When you're somebody's mother, you do what you can.)

Therefore Jack, immersed in the complexities of post-Civil War amendments to the American constitution, paid no attention to the noisy gang gathering around.

Evanon wandered in with Obsidian's sister, Sapphire. She was apprenticing with Jazz, a situation that Obsidian watched carefully. He was not certain that he trusted the rakish saboteur around his relatively sheltered little sister. But, so far, Sapphire had not shown any signs that she found the apprenticeship unsuitable. In any case, Jazz was not on base, so she had been in medbay today studying with Ratchet.

Obsidian asked, "How did your lessons go?"

His sister made herself comfortable beside him. "It was fun, I got to shadow Jolt while he gave Skimmer and Stormy their two-orn assessment. Sparklings are so cute!"

Obsidian grinned and went back to his coding.

Evanon chattered into his cell phone. Obsidian caught the names of his changeling, Jason, and Evanon's birth parents a few times. Evanon hung up with a grin on his face, then caught up with the rest of them.

Miko asked, "What was all that about?"

Evanon said, "Maybe I will let you guess, Lady Inquisitive."

Miko scowled. "Come on, nobody grins that big without a reason!"

The grin got, if anything, wider. "Jason and his parents are coming to town! Jason says that his dad is going to look at a business property, and if everything works out as they hope, his family will move here around Litha."

Miko's scowl cleared. "It'll be great to see Jason again! I hope they do move here!"

Shad White, who attended school online, came out of his and Jolt's quarters, stretching until his joints cracked after a long day in front of his laptop. He went immediately to the food, and dug in the refrigerator to see if there was any chili left. He found a bowl and fed it to the microwave, then got a juice pack and some corn chips from the vending machines.

The chips went headfirst into the chili, something Shad saw the other kids do, and on giving it the test run, he approved. He joined the rest.

Raf asked, "Is something wrong, Shad?"

"Of course not; why do you ask?" Shad knew, though, that Raf often noticed things that others did not.

The boy tilted his head to one side. "You seemed, I don't know, preoccupied?"

Shad sighed, stirring corn chips into chili. "I just had a conversation with my friend Leah, the girl who gave me Shankie. She's been talking to an older boy who left the compound before we did, Mordecai. He's homeless, living in a tent beside the river. And he isn't the only one from the compound who has to do that."

"Maybe we can help them somehow." Raf twiddled a pencil, which meant that he was thinking.

That was something Shad respected, as he had seen the younger boy pull quite a few mental rabbits out of his hat. But when three minutes' worth of pencil-twiddling had passed, and no solution was forthcoming, he said, "I'd like to, Raf, but I don't know how."

"Well, we can find out, can't we?"

Shad smiled. "Yes, Raf, I suppose we can. I know _you _can."

Raf blushed, but said, "My aunt says that there are charities in Mission City, and bigger ones in Las Vegas. Maybe they could point you in the right direction."

Shad pulled the tiny notebook and pen that went everywhere with him out of his shirt pocket. "Do you know any of the charities' names, Raf?"

Evanon, who had been listening with half an ear to Shad's conversation, tuned out at this point to ask Obsidian, "What are you working on?"

"It's a Cybertronian game that I'm trying to port over to run on Earth computers. Miko gave me the idea when she said that she would like to play it. I thought that others might as well, perhaps enough to buy the game."

Miko asked, "You mean that really cool racing game?"

"Yes, Miko-chan. Would you like to help me test it?"

"Are you kidding? Of course I would!"

Sapphire sent a query for permission to link to the game, and she and her brother swiftly established the connection. Once that was secure, Obsidian activated game controllers for Miko, Raf, Shad and Evanon.

Shad found a place to sit where his chili wouldn't get knocked over and asked, "How does this game work?" He had never played a video game in his life, other than the simple educational games that were sometimes part of his online schoolwork.

Evanon, in the same boat once, showed Shad the ropes where the controller was concerned, explaining the buttons and joysticks and triggers.

Jack looked up from his book to ask, "Obsidian, are you running a commercial OS? Isn't that dangerous?"

"Well, not exactly, I'm running an emulation in a sandbox. I'm not letting it dial out anywhere, and it can't affect anything outside the sandbox. Jazz says it's OK to work on games like that."

"Jazz would know," Jack said, and turned back to his work.

Evanon asked, "What is the objective of this game?"

"Each player has a marker which fits into a specific place on the monument at the end of the track. You have to get there first and put your marker in the monument, and in addition to the other players trying to do the same thing, there will be environmental hazards like breaks in the pavement and things that come rolling out onto the roadway. If you hit one, you lose time, so just blasting through as fast as you can go doesn't work. Our game has vehicle mode and root mode, but I haven't got root mode working with the controllers yet, so there are jump points to get past obstacles that you ordinarily would have to be in root mode to get by. The jump points are bright yellow circles, so if you see one, run over it. Those will be gone, once I figure out how to control root mode. It almost works now if you use keyboard controls."

There was some shuffling of bodies as they figured out which display went with which controller, and sat in front of the proper one.

The translation was still in progress, so the game's bugs provided as much entertainment as anything else, particularly when Miko found a place where she could drive straight up the side of a building onto the roof.

Shad asked, "Is this what Cybertron used to look like?"

Obsidian replied, "It looks like the vids of Iacon that I've seen. We were sparked in Iacon, of course, but I don't remember it. Do you, Saffi?"

She shook her head. "I only remember Tyger Pax." She looked at Shad. "It was much smaller than Iacon, without any of these huge towers. The city center buildings were only about ten stories tall. But those were still tall buildings compared to human cities. One of our stories is about four of yours." Her voice became as bleak as the desert wind. "I mean, was."

Obsidian took his sister's servo, and said, "Most bots lived in those tall towers. We lived in a walled estate on the edge of town, and ours was one of six cohorts who had estates. But all of it was gone forever, even before Sentinel tried to bring Cybertron here."

Shad nodded understanding. For him, for Raf, for Miko, for Evanon, for Obsidian and Sapphire, this base was safe haven, but home? Home, like Iacon, Tyger Pax, and the cult compound in Missouri, was gone forever.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Chromia and Ironhide stood side-by-side at his workbench, fine-tuning her autocannons and those of her sisters. Neither spoke aloud. Their language was one of small touches, quick glances, and Scott Glasco was reminded of working around the house with his late wife.

The two Cybertronians became aware of his fields. Ironhide raised his formidable helm and said, "Afternoon, Scott. Need something?"

"I'm glad I caught the two of you together. Got a minute?"

"Sure. Do you want up on the workbench?"

"Thanks, that'd make it easier to carry on a conversation."

Ironhide held out a servo to give the much smaller mech a lift to the top, and Scott found a spot on top of a toolbox that was out of their way while they were working.

Chromia took in the troubled nature of his fields. "Scott, what is wrong?"

Glasco heaved a sigh. "It's this Flatline. Some of us were talking about it, and we have some concerns. It isn't like Prime to order anyone shot on sight. We don't understand the situation, and, well, there are laws that we, and NEST, have to obey."

"To be honest, I had not considered your laws," Chromia said thoughtfully. "This is a Cybertronian matter, and your government has left decisions about Cybertronian citizens up to Prime. I assumed that Prime and Director Mearing were treating this in the same way. I suppose there would be an issue if anyone ever asked your government for asylum, but I can't see many Decepticons doing that. If they were going to throw themselves on anyone's mercy, it would be Prime's. As they would see it, asking your government for help would be 'lowering themselves' to begging from, I don't know, lower life forms, or some Decepticon-think like that. They often had more misplaced pride than common sense."

"Not hard," Ironhide said. "They never had much common sense to begin with."

Chromia smiled at her mate, and Scott felt a pang; he'd been on the receiving end of that too, and missed it.

Chromia went on, "As for Flatline, that mech is a condemned criminal. He's done a lot of things, but he was sentenced to death for kidnapping and experimenting on a group of newsparks—that is, very young sparklings, babies, to put it in English. Since then, he's only added to his list of horrors. When I got on your internet to look for comparable crimes in human history, an article on a man named Joseph Mengele came up. I don't know whether to be relieved or appalled that Cybertronians are not the only race in the universe capable of giving rise to people like that."

"Yes," Scott, a veteran of the second world war, said. "Mengele is very likely the nadir of human history."

Chromia inclined her helm. "Flatline was sanctioned because he needs to be stopped before he does something equally horrible again; he's demonstrated that he has no moral brakes at all. My sisters and I have a personal history with him that gives us just cause under Cybertonian law to be the ones to carry out his sentence."

Scott processed that for a moment, then returned his focus to her. "When you put it that way, I don't suppose it's any different than the Mossad going after Nazi war criminals."

There was a pause while the two sparked on Cybertron found out what a Mossad was. (A group of humans almost exactly like Jazz, who unlike Jazz possessed the uniting factor of an Earth-based religious practice.) "No, no different at all. If a tribunal hadn't already condemned him, my sisters and I would be breaking the law to hunt him down on our own initiative. We recognize dueling, but there are procedures, and mecha who aren't legally sanctioned can always refuse to fight."

"This isn't going to be a duel, then?"

"No. It's neither more nor less than an execution."

"You haven't had to do that before." Scott pulled up one knee and wrapped his arms around that ankle.

"No," Ironhide agreed, and made momentary eye contact. "Most of the ones who were sanctioned are already dead. Shockwave was one, and Hook was another." He returned to his work.

Chromia added, "There were a few others from several vorn ago, but they haven't been heard from in a long while, and it's likely they've been deactivated. They did things that most Decepticons wouldn't do. Some of them did things _Megatron_ wouldn't have done."

"Thanks for clearing that up for me." Scott uncoiled himself and stood.

"Not a problem. There are a lot of things I don't understand about your laws as well, and if the tire were on the other wheel, I'd have to ask questions until I understood it too." Chromia smiled at him.

Ironhide offered a hand down, but Scott shook his head and jumped. Beat the hell out of being eighty, and human.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen ni Gilthanel finished her morning's translation work. Wheeljack had been working with her and young Raf Esquivel, translating some of the simpler mathematical terms. Dr. Boggs had determined that little D'andre Epps was ready to begin to learn math, provided that he was taught in Cybertronian so that his math lessons would not be complicated by the stress of English. Later, once a concept was mastered so that there would be no confusion about the basic mathematical operations, they could begin to teach him English words for the mathematical principles.

Raf was stuffed his data pad into a well-worn backpack and gave her a quick hug before darting off to the teenagers' den to get a snack and start his own homework for the day.

Wheeljack smiled. "If that lad were a mechling, I'd have him for an apprentice in a sparkbeat."

Diarwen slid her own datapad into her bag. "He is a bit young to know what he wants to do for the rest of his life, but I would not be surprised if he comes to you in a few years."

"He has the knack. It's spark, not processor, however that translates to organics. It isn't whether he's going to be an engineer, it's what branch of engineering appeals to him most."

"Undoubtedly, you are right," Diarwen agreed.

"Have you a moment?"

"I believe I do."

"Come to my lab with me, then. I have something for you."

"Optimus will be pleased with neither of us if this 'something' explodes," she teased.

"It shouldn't explode," the engineer grinned, "though we won't know for sure until you test it."

Diarwen laughed. Wheeljack gave her a lift to his workbench and extended a set of pincers from one digit to pluck a box, tiny to him, from a shelf. When he turned back to her, both his expression and his aura had gone very serious. "Diarwen ni Gilthanel baen Righ Optimus, it is my honor as Craftmaster of the Iacon Guild of Makers to present you with the work of my own servos. May it serve you well."

Diarwen drew a breath. The phrasing of his address was a little more Gaelic than Sidhe, but close enough to be correct at court. Diarwen, daughter of Gilthanel, Consort of King Optimus: a translation of "Prime Consort" into Sidhe.

She steadied herself and answered, "Thank you, Craftmaster. It is I who am honored to be so recognized. May I open it?"

"Please do."

Diarwen separated the sections of the box; it helped that she had some familiarity now with Cybertronian puzzle boxes, and this one was not designed to be difficult to solve. Smooth metal nestled into her hand, slid beneath her fingers. The leaves of the box fell back and revealed a bladed weapon shorter than a one-handed sword, but a little longer and heavier in the grip than most daggers.

The hilt was very similar in grip to her own dagger, and Wheeljack had repeated the decorative design of the crosspiece and quillons, although those were proportionate to the heavier blade.

That blade, though, was its most striking feature. Several sections wrapped around one another, intertwining and standing apart in a glorious dance of varied metals. It was not a single forged blade, but several discrete elements, each with a different purpose. "It is beautiful, Wheeljack. Is this an energon weapon?"

"Not specifically, but it is designed in the same manner. I could not find an alloy with properties similar enough to mithril to forge a blade for you that would resist the heat if you drew fire to it. This blade generates an energy field that will protect its components from high heat and dissipate the excess into a small subspace pocket. You're right, this is exactly the same way that our own energon weapons function. But because it doesn't generate a plasma field of its own, it doesn't require a large energy cell. The pommel comes off and the energy cell loads into the grip."

Diarwen tested its balance, delighted with it. "How long may I expect the power cell to last?"

"The energy field will adjust itself to meet the demand you put on it, but I have no way of knowing what that will be as you continue to heal. For now, it should be more than sufficient for a day's normal use, and you can carry extras when you start needing them. Do you know how hot your flame burned before your injury?"

"Not in terms that I can easily translate. You look at something and see its temperature as easily as I see its color. I cannot do that. I do know that even the best Damascus steel is not able to withstand Fire as mithril does."

Wheeljack nodded. He knew the temperatures at which metals normally used by human swordsmiths lost strength, and the temperature range of ignited energon weapons. "That gives us an operating range. A power cell such as this one would last about ten minutes in a comparable energon dagger."

Diarwen nodded. "That should be more than sufficient, Wheeljack. Combats rarely last that long. Engagements where two warriors exchange blows from the rising till the going down of the sun are the province of song and legend. Few of us have the stamina for that. Also, while I do tend to call Fire at the beginning of a battle in order to make my opponent think twice, I do not have it—how would I put it—turned up all the way. The flame is at its most intense as I strike. There is a natural ebb and flow. I believe that I have seen the same thing with your warriors and their energon blades."

Wheeljack pulled up his drafting chair and sat down. "Yes, although for a different reason. An energon blade is powered by our own energon. While the heat sink cools it to a certain extent, we still have to deal with some very hot energon circulating back into our systems. Keeping a blade at full power eventually results in heat damage. Ratchet doesn't like it when we expect him to repair that!"

Diarwen turned her hand back and forth, watching the blade catch the light. "Wheeljack, you say it dissipates the heat into subspace? I have very little understanding of that. What happens to it?"

"It is released slowly enough that it doesn't do damage. You will find that the presentation box transforms into a sheath. There is a small switch."

Diarwen found it, and smiled in delight as the box transformed. Leaves of metal formed a pattern on the outside of the sheath, stylized Cybertronian representations of her own silveroak leaves. "Oh! That is beautiful!"

Wheeljack's aura reflected his pleasure at her own. "They will radiate the heat over time. It's safe to touch while you are wearing it. But if you want, you can release the heat more quickly. I've noticed that organics suffer from the cold; therefore I designed this to be a practical heat source for you."

Diarwen smiled. "That is extremely thoughtful of you."

The craftsmaster nodded his helm, and from his aura Diarwen knew that he had expended considerable effort to achieve that, and felt pride in the accomplishment. He said, "The blade can change configuration, as well. There are controls near the crosspiece. This is the configuration most similar to your dagger. The point of the blade can extend laterally to form a very small axe. That can be useful under some conditions."

"I will have to get Optimus to teach me the proper forms to train in using it so," she replied. "I am eager to practice with it."

"After you've done that, bring it back, and I'll make whatever adjustments are necessary. The balance can be changed to a certain extent. Also, if the grip doesn't feel quite right, we can work with that. The wrap looks right, but I am not at all sure that it will be acceptable in use."

Diarwen made a complicated series of cuts which tested her control of the blade. "It feels right. We will see how it reacts to a long practice session when my hand has been sweating on it for a while."

"Nothing proves at the workbench like use in the field," Wheeljack nodded. "Let me get you some extra fuel cells. Under normal circumstances, when they're spent, just bring them back to me and I'll issue you fully-charged ones as you need them. Should you be in the field for a while and unable to exchange them, any one of us can recharge them for you."

"Wheeljack, thank you. I will treasure this."

Wheeljack met her eyes for a moment, and then looked down. "Prime Consort, being able to present this to you—for the first time in many vorn, I, I, I feel more like a Craftmaster than a refugee."

Diarwen smiled like the sun had come up in her personal universe, and Wheeljack could suddenly see what it was about this particular organic that had drawn Optimus Prime. The Sidhe said, "Then you have given me two gifts today, if I was able to perform that service for you. Come, let us see if Optimus is done with his meeting. I wish to show him this work of art."

Wheeljack extended his servo to her, and they went in search of the Prime.

End Part 2


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Raf Esquivel finished the application for his school's summer science camp, and took the time to look over the brochure again. He hoped he would get into all of the mini-courses he wanted, but his second choices looked pretty good too.

He sent the application to the printer and closed his laptop, then got a glass of juice and supplied his smallest cousin, little Pedro, with a sippy cup of it. Pedro said, "Fank you, Waf," dispatched his juice, and went back to playing with his Army men.

The printer stopped, so Raf turned to the living room, where it resided, to collect his printout and get his aunt or his uncle to sign it.

He was just at the kitchen door when the phone rang. Jorge Figueroa muted the TV and reached for it. _"Bueno."_

Raf paid no attention at first, picking up the app and returning to the kitchen, but then he realized Tio Jorge was continuing the conversation in Spanish. That was uncommon, because most of his Army buddies teased him about speaking Spanish (which, of course, only encouraged him). Most of them had learned enough Spanish to get by, but not enough to carry on a complete conversation. Only Lennox and a couple of others spoke it that fluently.

Fortunately for them, Jorge spoke perfect English. Usually, though, he found annoying his squadmates with Spanish imprecations worth it.

Raf lingered near the kitchen door until he heard Tio Jorge say "Santiago."

His father was on the phone.

Jorge looked as pleased about that as he ever did. He always smiled when handing Raf the phone, but that didn't fool the boy: Santiago Esquivel was not Jorge Figueroa's favorite person in the world.

Raf slipped back into the kitchen and laid his printout on the counter. He had not seen his father in two years, not since his his mother had left them, not since the divorce. They had spoken very briefly on the phone a couple of times. Why not this time?

Raf hesitated a moment before picking up the extension by the back door.

His father's voice said in his ear, "...getting married next week."

The kitchen went dark around Raf.

"Oh, you knocked up another one, did you?" Tio Jorge's voice was cold.

Santiago said, "I did my duty by your sister and Raf, and I will by this one too. It's Teresa who ran out on me, remember? It's been two years, and she didn't even give me an address. The divorce papers went to her lawyer's office."

Fig hesitated. "You'll be wanting Raf to come out there then? Look, can we wait until after the school year? I...it would be a shame to move him with just a couple of months left. Stefania and I will miss him."

"Yeah, yeah, of course. I—uh, don't want to uproot him. In fact, maybe it would be better if he stayed there. He seems happy and he's doing really well in school. It would be a shame for him to have to make all new friends and get used to a pregnant stepmom. Raf's best interests, right?"

Tio Jorge's voice grew icy. "He's a member of my family, but you're his father and that's going to be his new brother or sister."

"Well, we'll see. Let me get things more settled. Maybe at the end of summer."

Raf knew what "we'll see" meant from his father. He would not be welcome in his dad's new family.

That knowledge sank into Raf like a cannonball into water, not stopping until it hit bottom and changed who Raf was.

He couldn't hope any longer. He couldn't delude himself any further that his father's avoidance of his company was for other than one reason: his dad did not want him. What was wrong with him?

At least he still had his mother...It helped a little. Not much; he hadn't heard from her in over a year.

He heard, as if at a long, echoing distance, Tio Jorge's voice. In a tone that might have stripped paint, Raf's uncle told his brother-in-law exactly what he thought of him.

That too helped a little, but not, in the end, very much. Raf carefully set the phone down and wiped tears from his eyes.

He was lucky to have his aunt and uncle and cousins. He knew that. They loved him; he was in no doubt of their affection. He didn't want to cry, to burden them with something that happened two years ago.

"S'wrong, Waf?" said Pedro.

"Nothing, Dito," he said, using Pedro's family name. "It's all right."

When he heard Fig hang up, Raf gave his uncle a few minutes. Once he heard the TV volume go up, he pasted a smile on his face and took the permission slip in for a signature.

Tio Jorge surprised him. He signed the permission slip, then pulled Raf into a quick hug. "I'm glad you're here," Tio Jorge said, and let go.

"Thank you, Tio Jorge. I'm glad to be here." Raf found another smile, fastened it in place, and made it to his room, where he flung himself down across the bed and let the tears come.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The desert sun beat down on Stefania Figueroa's SUV as she followed Ironhide, who followed the NEST deuce and a half, onto the grounds of Tranquility Public Schools. Elementary, middle, and grade schools were all housed on a single large campus, with the high school facing the street to the south, faced across a bricked quadrangle by the gymnasium to the north, the playing fields beyond it. The middle school opened into the quad from the west. The elementary school lay to the east, its fenced playground beyond it. Beyond that, a large paved lot provided bus loading and offloading, with a parking lot taking up the rest of the space all the way out to the chain link fence that surrounded the campus.

The deuce and a half took its place at the end of the row of yellow buses. Ironhide and Stefania found parking places, and kids of all ages began to stream out of the buildings.

Raf appeared with Miko and Junior Epps, and stopped by the tailgate of the deuce and a half to gossip with his friends until one of the soldiers, Bart, apparently got tired of waiting in the heat and told them to get in or walk. Raf broke off from the others as they jumped up onto the tailgate.

Three little blond girls about his age came out of the junior high school. They were wearing cheerleading uniforms; a pep rally? Stefania wondered.

Stefania saw Raf's eyes follow the tallest one's every move as she and her friends climbed aboard the bus next to the deuce and a half. Then he ran across the lot and hopped into the passenger seat, putting his computer tool box on his lap and his backpack under his feet before aiming the air conditioning vent at his face. He watched the girls' bus follow the deuce and a half and the big black weapons specialist out of the lot.

Stefania kept these observations to herself. "How was school today? You had computer club, right?"

"Yeah. I got to help a kid put in a new power source! The rest of it was OK," Raf said, eyes still glued to the bus, which went left while they went right. When it was out of sight, he looked to her with a smile. "I think I can test out of Algebra I and take Algebra II next year, then I can take physics and calculus as a freshman. After that, I can start taking advanced placement university science classes in sophomore year."

"I'm so proud of you, _mi tesoro."_

Raf blushed at being called a "treasure." "_Ay, Tia Stefania..."_

She laughed and tousled his mop of unruly brown hair. "Let's get your eye exam done, then you decide what we will bring home for dinner."

"Pizza?" he said hopefully.

_"Muy bien!" _She hesitated. "Raf, I'm afraid I have a little bad news. The card that you sent _tu mama_ came back in the mail. Apparently she moved and someone else is living at that address now."

"Oh, no! Where did she go?" Raf's eyes got big.

"We don't know. She sent us a change of address card from the post office, but it got lost in the mail or something." Stefania negotiated a tricky four-way intersection. "And apparently she's been away from there for more than six months, because otherwise they would have forwarded it to her new address."

"We have to find her." Raf pounded a clenched fist on his knee.

"We will," said Stefania, letting a driver with more guts than good sense cut her off. The world was filled with idiots. "We can talk about it with your uncle tonight. He probably knows more than I do about finding someone who has moved. Especially _su hermana."_

_"Si, Tia. Espero que si."_

"It'll be all right, Raf."

"I know." He paused, and then changed the subject to something happier. "I hope my glasses don't change very much. If they don't, I'm going to get Wheeljack to show me how to make this pair zoom in and out like a microscope or a telescope!"

"That's fantastic. Like something Batman would have on his utility belt."

"Wait until we get a Google Glass and hack it!"

"Do I want to know?"

"Umm...no!"

Stefania laughed as they pulled into the parking lot, glad to see Raf grin after the bad news.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Dinner at the Figueroa's was a noisy, boisterous business when everyone was home: most nights. Raf did not like noise and confusion, but this was family noise and confusion, and thus did not count. In fact friendly family noise and confusion he actually _liked_. It was better than the cold silences into which his parents had fallen.

The opening of the pizza boxes—one pepperoni, one sausage and onions—was greeted with squeals of joy and shouts for favorites. Raf and his year-younger cousin Juan each grabbed a slice and got out of the way while Fig and Stefania got the three littlest kids their pizza.

Juan said around a mouthful of pepperoni, "I gotta hand it to you, Raf, you sure know how to pick out the pies."

Raf grinned. "I asked Tia Stefania to pick one, and then I picked the one I knew you liked best."

"You're not so bad an older brother," Juan said with a grin.

And that helped a little, too.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The small children in the Figueroa household, and even the larger children, were all abed. So were the adults; they'd been there a while, not sleeping, and sleep was not on the agenda for a short time yet.

Jorge Figueroa lay back, sweaty and pleased with himself, and Stefania, equally sweaty and just as pleased with him, cuddled up under an arm. "Raf is growing up," she said.

"You're telling me? How many times this year have we had to buy him a new wardrobe because he outgrew the first one?"

"Three. We're lucky to live in Nevada, where you can get away with shorts year round, almost. —But you know what, he has his first crush."

"No kidding? Who's the lucky girl?"

"Cheerleader at his school. Tall blond."

Fig grinned. "Good for Raf. You know, I think it might be time to tell Santiago we're adopting him, if Raf agrees to that."

"That ratfink." Stefania scowled, which left her so adorable in Fig's eyes that he had no recourse but to kiss the scowl away. Stefania allowed this before she said, "You know, though, today Raf's birthday card to Teresa was returned to him."

Fig sighed. _"Mi hermana._ You know, I had some hope she'd finally grown out of her wild ways. Last time she talked to anyone in the family, it was Mama, and she said that Teresa sounded like things had turned a corner for her. She had a good job she liked, wasn't seeing anybody because she said she screwed it up pretty bad the first time, talked about maybe visiting Raf."

Stefania frowned. "I really wish we could get in touch with her. She might like to see Raf graduate from middle school."

"Sic Raf on it." Fig yawned. "If anybody can find her before that, our little whiz kid will be the one."

"Handy to live in a house full of overachievers," Stefania said, and yawned herself. "I'm glad you brought Raf into our home."

"Me too," Fig said drowsily, and Stefania snuggled more closely into his side. They fell to sleep, content, in one another's arms.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Soon after Bumblebee absented himself to seek out a suitable bodyguard for the Witwickys, Diarwen rang the doorbell.

Early morning was the best time for Sam's lessons: Danny had been fed and would be sleeping; Carly typically went to medbay if she had a check-up scheduled that day, or worked on her book, sitting at a small writing desk in the nursery where she could keep an eye on her son as she worked.

When the junior Witwickys first moved to Mission City, with Carly newly pregnant and a stranger in town, she found herself at loose ends after the never-ending whirl that was life in DC. Sam suggested that she write an account of the Cybertronians' arrival and settlement on Earth.

Carly, however, had taken that idea and run with it. She gained Optimus' approval and collaboration, archivist that he was, and in time she had also enlisted the help of Prowl, Milestrina, and General Morshower.

Carly planned the first volume to cover everything from Megatron's crash landing in the Arctic to the formation of NEST, and after that, she thought she might write a textbook suitable for a 101-level course on Cybertronian history, to be co-written by Milestrina.

Many evenings, Carly brought her laptop to the quarters Optimus and Diarwen shared, and worked with Optimus in their sitting room. Diarwen knew the project was an enjoyable distraction for him.

Further, she herself liked the Englishwoman very much. Writers and bards had a great deal in common, after all.

Carly said, by way of greeting, "There's peppermint tea, if you'd like some. May I get you a cup?"

"Yes, thank you, Carly, that would be wonderful."

"Have you eaten?"

"Yes, thank you." She smiled at the younger woman. Carly's aura was beginning to display the brighter hues natural to good health after she had come so near to dying at Danny's birth; that proved a great relief to the Sidhe.

Carly knew how she liked her tea, one sugar and a generous splash of milk. Once she had brought the cup and saucer, she took her laptop case into Danny's room.

The coffee pot was already on the table; Sam refilled his mug and opened a notebook which he had filled with Cybertronian glyphs and their translations. Many of the translations were still in pencil, their meanings ambiguous in English.

He flipped to the last few pages, where he had collected all the glyphs that he could find that had anything to do with turning a sentence into a command or request. Bee, at his request, translated them into English, since it was his Protector's understanding of Sam's intent that mattered under the present circumstances.

Sam scowled at the hapless scribbles. "This is fucked."

Diarwen, unoffended, arched an eyebrow. "Be more specific."

"This whole situation. There ought to be a way to fix Bee's code so he wouldn't have to worry about me using the wrong word! How did anyone ever think it would be a good thing—!"

Diarwen said calmly, as Sam's aura was beginning to roil, "Optimus has told me that all Cybertronians have this coding, which is so central to their operating system that it cannot be completely removed. It goes back to the slave days and, for most, remains dormant their entire lives. Only Primes have the ability to activate it, and they solely for a single command given to a single mech. If it is needful to order that mech to repeat the action, the command must be re-sent."

Sam's face paled. "For any Cybertronian? They can compel obedience from _any_ Cybertronian?"

Diarwen shook her head. "If that was so historically, it is no longer true. Over the years, Cybertronians have slowly and gradually chipped away at these obedience subroutines until now, most Cybertronians can disregard a Prime's commands if they want to badly enough. Only in the case of the Prime-and-Protector dyads does it become fully operational. I do not know the reason it has not been so fully extirpated there, but I infer from some of the things Optimus says that the Protectors themselves chose not to modify their coding. They felt it worth the sacrifice, and they continued in that opinion for hundreds of thousands of years. Something in that system worked for them, as harsh as it seems to us today. I suspect that code does more than enforce obedience to a command from their individual Prime, something that offsets the possible problems created by the command issue. By all means, learn not to abuse the power that this situation gives you. But I would advise caution in rejecting it entirely before you find out what advantages it offers."

Sam, aura subsiding, nodded thoughtfully. "I guess it's worth looking into, because we can avoid the problems if I'm careful how I phrase things."

"Precisely. Now, let me see what you've done since the last time I saw your notebook." She opened the glossary on her datapad and the two of them began to work.

Sam was a hard worker, a pleasure to teach, and the work they were doing gave her a chance to branch out into areas of the Cybertronian language which were too advanced for the sparklings. Altogether, Diarwen found teaching this young Prime a very pleasant task.

Sam said, "These glyphs are the language of the Ancient Primes, the oldest form of Cybertronian. Milestrina might still speak it conversationally, and an ancient Seeker that we met spoke it. I didn't realize it at first, since I don't really understand Cybertronian, not like you do, but the All-Spark imprinted me with this language when it wanted me to find the Matrix. I didn't comprehend it on a conscious level. Human brains just don't handle data the way Cybertronian processors do, and the disconnect between the two probably would have killed me if that explosion hadn't done the job first. When the Matrix brought me back, most of that imprinted knowledge disappeared, but it's still familiar. Learning the definitions of the glyphs that came down from this form of Cybertronian is very easy for me. These command glyphs seem to have passed down almost unchanged into modern Cybertronian."

"That happens as languages evolve. There are a few words in modern usage that have come down from the Neanderthals to modern English, though they have changed much upon that long journey because they have been passed down through so many more intermediate languages and generations. I doubt there is anyone else left on Earth who would recognize them today. I suspect it is much the same process at work."

Sam sighed and chugged more coffee; Danny wailed briefly, then fell silent as his mother's voice spoke softly to him. Then the young Prime said, "Every time I turn around, I come across more parallels between Optimus' people and our own. But Neanderthals? You've actually spoken to Neanderthals?"

The Sidhe smiled at him from 680 times his experience. "Yes. Their language was very different from those of the Levantine and European humans with whom they traded. There was a lingua franca in use among traders, a sort of pidgin, and any words which travelled from one group to the other had to filter through that first. Those who married between the groups learned this pidgin as well, because its words were pronounceable by both species."

"We're seeing the same thing developing with Cybertronian. Did you model the form of Cybertronian you're developing after that trade pidgin intentionally?"

"The one that humans can pronounce?" said Diarwen, who was working on several versions of Cybertronian. "That is a good question, Sam. I did not do so intentionally, but my efforts may have been influenced by my knowledge of that ancient language."

For a moment, she was back in a trader's camp in a long-ago, much colder Europe, watching the tall, heavy-set mountain hunters with long, dark hair that spilled like fur down their broad backs, and their huge hands which had seemed almost big enough to completely surround her small form. Frightened yet intrigued, she had peered at them from behind her father's leg while he haggled for a bear skin for a new cloak.

The traders' wives had been intrigued with her as they were with any Sidhe child, for such were far more rare than the children of mountain hunters or the new folk, as the modern humans had been called, though by then they had been in Europe for many generations.

She had been fascinated by their beaten copper bangles, themselves trade goods from the south, and by the delicious aroma of a huge elk spitted over a fire in the center of the makeshift town. The old man turning the spit had a large cudgel for those adults who thought to eat without paying, but no child left without a generous strip of meat threaded onto a sharp stick.

Sam was giving her a bemused look when she shook her head. "Where were you?"

"Ah, long ago and far away, in a place that no longer exists." She smiled. "Now, this glyph here..."

All three of the adults continued their work, Danny contributing occasional coos and cries. Once, Carly sang to him, cockles and mussels, alive, alive-o.

When, after what surely could not have been a full hour and a half, Diarwen shut her datapad, Sam sighed and stretched. "Thank you, Diarwen. I'm really glad you're here to help me with this. Otherwise I'd still be saying, 'Get me a beer, would you?' to Bee."

Diarwen smiled. "Thoughtless, but not truly evil, Sam."

"Beyond thoughtless, I think," the young Prime said in a quiet voice, "if he would lay down his life for me or mine."

"Do you know, that perception has marked out every great leader I have ever known, be they human, Sidhe, or Cybertronian? You might speak with Hot Rod, who is a Prime candidate. He may be willing to discuss with you how his thinking has changed since Optimus found the Prime glyph on his frame." Diarwen put her datapad in her messenger bag. "And now, I must go. I have few assigned duties for the balance of the day, but much to get done."

Sam walked her to the door. Sitting in Bumblebee's place at the curb was a white mech with a hammer across his knees: Icebreaker, one of Excellion's passengers. As she passed, he bowed his helm. "Good joor, Prime Consort."

"Good joor to you as well, Icebreaker," she said with a smile, and whistled a tune as she cut catty-corner across the street to the entrance to the Quonset hut that housed Optimus' quarters.

Only a few months remained until they moved into the new quarters in the Cliff House. The weather was already getting warmer, and it would be good to get underground before the hottest days of summer.

Diarwen entered their quarters, which she had to herself; Optimus had not been in them since Jazz and Arturo left on their mission. She started a load of laundry, next turning on the lamp above her desk. She would make her notes while today's work was still fresh in her mind, then work on tomorrow's lesson plan.

As was her habit, she got an incense burner from her desk drawer, put a charcoal button into the burner, and called Fire to ignite it.

Only after the charcoal sparkled and began to glow red did she realize that calling Fire had been much easier than she expected—the spark had leapt to the charcoal just as it did the last time she started the burner after a lesson with Sam.

There was something about him that..."nurturing" was too small a word. Something about him that encouraged a person, even if they were not one of "his," as Diarwen was not, to excel at being the self they truly were.

She had seen that in Titania, in Optimus, in comrades never forgotten though long dead, and to a lesser degree in Will Lennox. As she had said to Sam, it was one mark of a leader chosen and blessed by the Ancient Ones.

Sam may have had trouble accepting that he was indeed a Prime, but Diarwen had no such doubts.

End Part Three


	4. Chapter 4

Part Four

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Marian Nielson's first thought on entering the higher-security part of the Jefferson County Jail was that it was as noisy and stinking as the first place she'd been held.

Prisons smell of despair, of uncleanliness both of person and of cell, and of vomit, urine, and feces. They echo with screams, shouts, wails of terror, conversations with real or imaginary friends or enemies. The doors are metal, and shriek aside for those who enter, and are equally noisy in freeing those fortunate enough to leave.

Orbital center of a galaxy of guards, the dishwater blonde with muscles like a lumberjack stood head and shoulders over all of them. She wore shackles and leg irons, and those inmates who were _compos mentis_ enough to track such things could understand from their body language that her guards, all male, all fit, all trained, all armed, were still afraid of her.

Keys rattled, the cell door opened, and the new inmate was encouraged inside by a guard who held a taser like a shield. Once there, she was instructed to turn first one ankle to the bars, then the other, to have the leg irons unlocked, then stuck her wrists through the slot to have the manacles taken off.

One of the guards made absolutely sure the cell door was locked, then looked at Marian Nielson, who sprawled on her bunk. "Let's see if you can get along with your new cellmate any better than your old one!"

Marian sneered at him, and the gaggle of guards left the cell block.

The new prisoner said, "Son of a bitch."

Marian grunted, a noise that could have meant anything from agreement to "That's interesting, now shut up."

"What are you in for?"

Marian gave her new companion the hairy eyeball. "They say I tried to kill my kids and my niece. And then they got questions about these seven fags. You?"

"Somebody strangled my boyfriend. They thought it might have been me because he was screwin' around with everything in town."

"Dick."

"Yep. Even if I did it, which I ain't sayin' I did, he brought it on himself."

Marian replied with another of those all-purpose grunts.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The inmates had an hour's exercise each day. Marian Nielson's turn came just before dinner; a chain-link kennel topped with several rows of barbed wire and surrounded by masonry walls provided the venue but no view. By the time she got outside, her jail-issue orange jumpsuit was not really warm enough.

Just before they were allowed to return to their cells, a thin scraggly-looking woman whose forearms were scarred hissed to her out of the side of her mouth, "You the one come in from that commune?"

"Yeah, so what," Marian said.

"Keep your voice down! We ain't supposed to talk to each other. You tried to poison your own kids?"

The woman's tone might have warned anyone but Marian. "We were ordered to so they wouldn't become sinners."

The other woman was surprised into a small caw of laughter. "Girl, we all sinners! You tried to _poison_ your own children? That sick."

As they were herded back inside, another prisoner hissed to her, "You used to be Dawnie's cellie?"

Marian snorted. "That retard? Yeah."

The other inmate walked into her hard enough to make Marian shuffle her feet to stay on them. "What, you too? Get away from me!"

The guards separated them.

"You shouldna done that to Dawnie," her cellie said, once they were "home."

Marian shrugged. "She got the hole for three days. It didn't kill her."

"She's a retard. You don' know what bothers her. She ain't a bad kid, jus' stupid."

Marian shrugged.

"Best care just a li'l bit," her cellie said. "You ratted her out to the guards. You do that again to anybody, you'll be dead. An' if my choice is you be dead or I be dead wi'chu, you be dead. You hear?"

Marian spent her first night in her new home fashioning a sharp scrap of plastic found on the ground and a toothbrush purloined from her former cellmate into a shiv, an improvised knife. It wasn't much, but Marian knew how to stick a pig. She fingered it, and gave another all-purpose grunt.

She had two fights with other prisoners behind her; a third with a lethal ending would not be that much trouble. She got pushed in the shower line the first time, and she pushed back; the guards saw that she was the push-ee, and the other woman wasn't well liked, so Marian got off with a warning that time.

The second occurred on the bus back from her arraignment. Marian, angry she had been denied bail, stomped a young black woman for calling her a freak. Her foot caught the other woman's ankle chain just right and the ankle band either cut the woman or twisted her skin until it ripped—all Marian knew was that the girl started throwing up when she saw blood. Marian was confined to her cell for three days after that one.

Fine by her. Didn't matter much if she was denied her one glorious hour of shuffling, chilled, in a circle.

A skinny redhead who had been picked up the day before for writing cold checks, and whose family hadn't scraped up her bail yet, was giving her a curious stare. Marian glared back at her, and the redhead quickly turned to talk to her cellmate. From the few words Marian overheard, the cellmate was giving the redhead the lowdown on Marian. The redhead gasped and said out loud, "She was gonna _what?"_

"Shh!"

The two of them and the women on both sides of their cell gathered to whisper together. They studiously ignored Marian, but occasionally one of them would give her a furtive glance when they thought she wasn't looking.

Occasionally she heard other fragments of conversation. "...got denied bail..."

"...judge with sense..."

Marian "humphed" her way over to her bed, which creaked ominously when she plopped her weight down on it. "Judge with sense, my rear end," she muttered. That judge was just another emissary of Satan. Everyone working for the government had to take the mark of the beast. Didn't everybody know that?

Several of the others arrested at the compound had been bailed out. Many hadn't even been charged. But they called Marian a flight risk and likely to reoffend before her trial date, so here she sat.

The little redhead said a little too loudly, "They'll _never_ let someone who was going to poison her own little babies out of jail, never! She might try to get them back!"

Marian seethed. She'd get them back. She'd pay Leah back for the trouble, too.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Morithel half-ran through the narrow cobblestone streets of the Underhill. Medb had summoned her so late in the evening that the Court had already retired, so whatever she might be needed for, the Queen's Champion thought grimly, it was urgent.

The streets were still busy, for the Underhill never truly slept. In the endless caverns which knew neither day nor night, a sense of time could only be gotten by glancing at the Queen's Clocktower, which hung from the cavern roof near the palace gate.

Morithel found the alley she sought, and bounded up every third step of a narrow staircase between the Trader's Guildhall and a series of warehouses. Overhead, walkways connected the upper levels of the buildings, so that the merchants could tend to Guild business in private.

The alley's carved stone steps, worn smooth by the passage of generations of drunkards, footpads, streetwalkers, and other assorted rabble, made a quick shortcut between the street behind Morithel's apartments and the lower end of the Queen's Way. The denizens of the district made way quickly as the Unseelie Knight approached.

On Queen's Way, she happened upon a cab awaiting a fare, and slapped the side of the carriage to awaken the sleeping driver. She tossed him a coin and called, "The palace gates, and hurry!" Morithel climbed aboard without waiting for him to open the door for her.

The driver urged the horse to a swift trot, and they scattered pedestrians out of their way. Even those of some rank stepped aside, some with a few angry words for the cab driver once they were safely out of his path.

Morithel tossed a few more coins to the driver and jumped off the running board without bothering to wait for the cab to roll to a stop. Racing up, she knocked on the guardhouse window. "Open in the name of the Queen! I have been summoned to her royal Presence; make haste!"

The guard took the time to verify her identity before opening anything. Morithel would be the first to punish him if he had not done so. But then the gate fairly flew open and a lad sent running ahead of her to clear her way.

Morithel continued alone after the Royal Guards allowed her into the queen's apartments.

That word was barely adequate to describe an entire floor of the palace as well as several chambers excavated from the cliff wall behind it. Despite the number of centuries that Morithel had served Queen Medb, she was under no illusion that she had seen all of Her Majesty's living quarters. But she was familiar enough with the royal dwelling to make her way confidently through its corridors to the sitting room where Medb chose to meet privately with those she particularly trusted, among them the Queen's Champion.

The intricately carved door was centered with a golden knocker in the form of a dragon's paw. The creature's ruby eyes, skilfully cut and set, seemed alive as the flicker of candlelight gave them movement.

Morithel raised the knocker and let the dragon's fist fall once.

After a moment, she heard the queen command, "Enter."

Morithel did so, taking two precise steps into the room, then swept her cloak aside with a graceful gesture to kneel. "My queen."

"Arise, Lady Morithel."

The queen was wearing only a simple tabard over a black chemise; were it not for their exquisite materials and allover embroidery they might have been worn by any noblewoman of her realm. Her ink-black hair, however, fell unbound from a simple circlet of braided silver wire, hung with amulets of amber and jet. Any other woman taking the wearing of such a circlet to herself in Underhill would swiftly experience Her Majesty's retribution.

Slender fingers gestured to a flagon and two glasses. Morithel poured for them both, waited for the queen to choose a glass, and took the other.

The wine flowed gently over the palate. Morithel savored it, and then, as Medb's eyes were still distant and filled with pain, said softly, "My queen, how may I serve you?"

Medb put the lovely glass down with a clack, and her eyes when they switched to Morithel's remained unhappy. "Jaelin is up to something. He has been making much use of a portal of his own devising of late. The portal is located in the townhouse of one of his doxies, so he thought to keep its presence from me. He should know by now that loyalty secured with gold is easily suborned by a more generous benefactor. I would know where this portal goes, and precisely what my son is doing there."

"At your command, your majesty."

Medb's eyes softened as she truly looked at her Champion for the first time since Morithel had been in her presence. Morithel had dressed herself speedily in tunic and leggings of her own colors; her haste was betrayed by her failure to fully pull the tabard of her Queen's service into place; it wrinkled where the sword-belt caught it. Her long ebony braid also showed several stray strands, as she had not stopped to re-braid it before answering Medb's summons.

In short, she resembled a woman who had been woken by her servants to attend to the Queen, which was...not precisely the case. But the fair young man Medb did not know about would wait.

Morithel had served Medb faithfully for so long that the kind of friendship a Queen can afford to have with a subject now flowed between them. Medb said, laying one royal hand on her champion's forearm, "Morithel, have a care. Jaelin is not the prideful youth he once was. I fear we no longer know the man he has become."

"Yes, my queen," said the woman who could, unless overwhelmed by sheer numbers, fillet the young whippersnapper—prince, Morithel amended hastily—without turning a hair. She did not share with the whippersnapper's mother that she was rather hoping he would make her do just that.

Her Majesty's hand fell from Morithel's sleeve. "The courtesan's name is Celemith. You will find her near the Flower Market Stairs, on the third level. Her door is carved with lilies. She awaits you. Knock three times, wait, then three times more." Medb provided a small pouch which clinked with coins. "For her trouble."

"I will go at once, my liege." Morithel bowed again, and backed out the door.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The Queen's Champion passed quickly over the reeking sewer grate at the foot of the Flower Market Stairs, and did not slow her steps until she reached the closed shops of the first landing. With her hood pulled low, she mingled effortlessly with the revellers coming and going from the festhall on the second landing.

That landing was something more than a balcony, and only a little less than a plaza. A crowd of the those dressed in the latest and most expensive fashions, young faces wrinkled and bagged above fine fabric, sipped wines which slid like silk past the palate.

The wines were not the only amusement on offer. Dissolute eyes followed those slaves of the festhall who moved with willowy grace through the crowd, wearing little more than ornate collars and a few scraps of silk. Even as Morithel made her way by, a noble found a slave to her liking, and took her choice for the night into the hall. Money changed hands.

More often than not what followed was not the main course, as it were, although those whose appetites were all that urgent could always choose so. Most revellers found a place in the festhall to partake of food and drink while they and their choice watched the dancers, letting the tension build before venturing further into the privacy offered by a warren of rooms, not all meant for occupation by a single couple.

Morithel swept on through the crowd and ascended another level. One young drunk said to her, "Hey, you. Wanna—" and then was pulled away by the hands of more knowledgeable friends, who certainly saved his life in the doing.

On the third landing, water from above splashed down into a pool. A channel guided the overflow through a gargoyle's-head spout, where it cascaded into another pool near the Flower Market and eventually flowed into the same sewers which Morithel had quickly bypassed below.

The courtesans here were freeborn, not festhall slaves; true courtesans, not merely whores. A colonnade led off the landing, the deep shadows of its arches concealing those who visited the apartments within. The women, and some men, who lived therein acted as high-class escorts until they found a patron who, once sufficiently fascinated, paid enough to keep their attentions for him- or herself alone.

Morithel skirted a few couples trysting by the fountain and passed by several doors until she came to the one carved with lilies. She rapped three times, waited, then thrice more.

The door opened to reveal a woman not much more than a girl, whose mist-gray cloud of hair and pale delicacy conformed to what was known of Jaelin's preferences. And Morithel knew she had seen that green gown often; Stormfalcon seemed to make it and its twins his first gift to all of his courtesans.

His last was inevitably a necklace of green glass, to match the dress.

The room he currently subsidized was dimly lit by tiny candles, flickering like Earth's fireflies in stained glass holders strewn about every horizontal surface, including a few on the floor, though those were tall fat candles made for such. That floor was layered with rugs; if they were patterned it was too dark to make those patterns out.

Large pillows lay scattered throughout the room, and a low table held a constellation of candles as well as a trio of bottles and a few glasses.

"What would please milady?" said the girl, her hands clasped in front her and her eyes lowered in false modesty.

"I am Lady Morithel, sent by the Queen to see the portal that Prince Jaelin conceals here."

Celemith's eyes widened and she stammered, "A-at once, milady!" She led the way through a curtained doorway off the salon into her "business" bedchamber, and from there through another door into a more brightly lit corridor. At the far end, Morithel, sweeping off her hood, saw a kitchen. This was the courtesan's private living quarters.

Celemith opened a door directly across the hallway from the curtain. It proved to be storage for the items needed to set up salon or boudoir for a special scenario. She wheeled aside a rack of costumes to reveal a tall chevalier mirror. "He has never let me remain while he used it, milady, I was to lock the door from the outside and await his return. I do not know the spell to command it."

"Is he on the other side now? When did he last use it?"

"No, Lady Morithel, he is not. He was here this morning, and was gone with those who usually await him in my chambers for the space of...four hours I would think? He returned before the midday changing of the watch, and neither lingered nor mentioned where he was going."

Morithel gave her the pouch of coins. "Well done. Lock the door behind me, and say nothing of this."

"Yes, milady." Celemith curtseyed, then absented herself with alacrity.

When Morithel heard the bolt slide, she turned to the mirror. "Well, now. What are you?"

Before touching or casting any magic upon the thing, she circled it, examining it from all angles. There were no keyholes, no wires, nor any other mechanism that she could see.

Jaelin had a preference for herding his enemies into situations where they became hoist by their own petard, as the human playwright had said. After casting several spells upon the mirror, she believed that she had this one figured out. In addition to its usual destination, the mirror had another, one to which the unwary or overconfident user would be sent. Morithel did not want to find out what was through that portal, as she was quite certain it would lead only to a brief, unpleasant stay which was probably fatal as well.

The true destination seemed little better, on first glance, when her will forced the portal to settle. Through the mirror's gateway she could see a dark, forbidding landscape with tall, craggy mountains of frost-rimed black stone. Between two tall peaks she saw a sliver of dark sky, the thin crescent of a red moon, and a few stars hanging like distant ice chips.

Jaelin had been here without apparent harm, so Morithel had no doubt of her own survival. She checked her weapons, loosened her sword in its sheath, and stepped through.

The cold burned her lungs and stole her breath for a moment. With a muttered curse she drew her cloak around her and turned around to see if the portal was still there. It had gone inactive, but not closed entirely. To her Sight, there was a fine tracing of the mirror's outline on the rock wall. It would go unnoticed to anyone who did not know what to look for.

She made careful note of her surroundings so that she could tell this small section of mountainside from any other; it would be very easy to get lost here. Once she was sure she would be able to recognize the place again, she began to explore.

Between the rutting cold and the bleak surroundings, Morithel wondered what in all the hells was here to interest the prince. Thinking of her warm bed and the eager young man awaiting her there, the queen's champion swore that this had better be good, or she would take it out of Jaelin's hide at her first opportunity.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

General Strika looked out over her command center from the raised level where she had chosen to place her own workstation.

Once this room had held a throne, which was fine for those whose egos needed stroking; Strika, frighteningly practical, found its new purpose more pleasing.

A massive staircase had once led to the center, but she and her people had no need of such. With its removal, her command level was inaccessible to grounders, but that was worth not so much as a second thought to the Seekers and Seeker-kin who made up her Flock.

Behind her, a huge doorway led to an exterior balcony. The organic builders of the place had been of a size with Cybertronians, but they had been grounders. They had provided the balcony with a graceful and charming ornamental railing. Strika had made short work of that as well, so that all she had to do to take flight was step off the edge.

Yes, she thought, preparing herself to do just that, this place was...suitable. Gravity took her, and she snapped her wings out.

Nothing moved on her sensors save short transmissions from the CAP—Combat Air Patrol—as they flew today's pattern on the other side of her domain. Strika had ordered the patrols more to keep the trines occupied and in practice than because there was anything to patrol against. The planet's few indigenous people were much larger than most organics, but they were poor, surviving on the scraps of a dying civilization. The castle that had become New Darkmount was all that remained of their former glory.

Strika fed them and put them to work mining. They seemed happy enough as long as the food kept coming, and her Seekers were happy to have someone else scrabbling in the dirt.

It worked out well for all concerned; slaves who had no idea that they were property, and rarely saw their masters, had little need to revolt.

The Autobots and rival groups of Decepticons were always a concern, but not an immediate one, as none of them were in a strategic position to mount an offensive. Strika's flock maintained readiness at her insistence. Counting on the belief that no one was in a position to attack was foolishness, but for the moment, New Darkmount was at peace, no bad thing...though it did make maintaining discipline a little more difficult.

Strika's comms crackled, interference from the rich ore deposits in the mountains below her. ::Base, General Strika.::

::Strika here, what is it?::

::We have detected an energy field anomaly just like the others, General. What are your orders?::

::Send coordinates.::

When the comms officer did so, Strika called up the appropriate map. ::I'm very close to that area. I'll fly over and see what I can find. The CAP is too far away to do any good. Find the twins and have them meet me.::

::Yes, Wingleader.::

Strika dropped down into a steep-sided valley and flew slowly, scanning every nook and cranny as she advanced. She sensed perturbations in the valley's air currents and followed the disturbance as best she could. Microweather anomalies had been detected for a short time in conjunction with the other energy field fluctuations, but no one had ever arrived on the scene quickly enough to find the exact location. If she didn't, she would at least get close enough to center a search as soon as the sun came up. Seekers had very good night vision, but the steep valleys around New Darkmount received very little starlight and were almost pitch dark at night even in the ultraviolet range.

The cold background, however, made infrared that much more effective, as there was more contrast between a warm object and its surroundings. Strika saw a small bipedal grounder, an organic from the heat signature, making its way down the valley. It was too small to be a native.

The small organic saw her at about the same time. Without hesitation, it scrambled up the rock wall and ducked into a crevice in the cliff face. Strika would have sworn that tiny crack was unreachable, but now she was amused. The creature had trapped itself in there.

The only question was whether the organic was intelligent. Most organics had the sentience of mechanimals. Some species, she knew, could communicate, such as her natives here and the dominant species on Dirt or Sod or whatever Optimus Prime's new planet was called...why hadn't the organics called it "Water"? It was only thirty percent landmass.

She descended, aware of the sudden gusts around the canyon walls, and shined a light back into the crevice.

She barely dodged a small projectile which would have hit her in the optic if she hadn't moved.

The creature was intelligent enough to use tools. Interesting.

End Part Four


	5. Chapter 5

Part Five

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Morithel's scramble into that crevice had accomplished for her two things: a modicum of shelter from the Cybertronian's thruster exhaust as it hovered closer, and her immersion in her Element of Earth. The elemental energies of this planet were primal and raw, right there for the taking: felt, in fact, as if they had never previously been used.

The huge being had the gall to look at her like a specimen in the Queen's Menagerie. Morithel had not come here looking for a confrontation, but she had to get past the huge flying golem to return. She nocked an arrow and let fly at the creature's glowing red eye, having noticed in their brief confrontation that Optimus Prime had used his common sense where a possible attack there was concerned.

The Cybertronian turned its head quickly, and the arrow skittered harmlessly along its helmet before falling to the valley floor far below. It hovered closer, and reached a sharp-taloned finger into the crevice.

That claw could either pick her out of her hiding place, or skewer her, and Morithel did not wait to see which the Cybertronian had in mind. She leapt to its wrist and ran up its arm to the elbow, swinging from its upper arm plate to its back, between the wings where it could neither reach her nor easily scrape her off against the rock walls.

The Cybertronian roared in its own language of clicks, whistles and deafening screeches, its aura bright red with outrage.

Enough. Morithel's affinity to Earth left her sensitive to magnetic and electrical fields, which allowed her to sense the power running through that massive frame. The currents formed patterns highly reminiscent of the nervous systems of creatures made of flesh and blood, but this was the same electrical energy that the humans had harnessed to power their cities and their machines. It seemed this living machine had something in common with those mindless, spiritless things.

Morithel sensed a nexus of many electrical currents not far below her, in the Cybertronian's midsection.

Those Unseelie with an affinity for Earth had discovered a way to prank the humans and cause their electrical things to power down, or often (and more interestingly, to judge from the resulting curses) operate erratically. Morithel concentrated, called upon Earth, and manifested a chunk of lodestone right on top of that nexus.

The results were both immediate and spectacular. The Cybertronian's hands shot to its midsection as streaks of gray and black clawed through its aura. Morithel could not speak a word of its language, but no doubt it cursed her ancestors back seven generations and her nonexistent progeny forward until the end of time. It all but dropped like a stone, nothing but sheer will feathering its engines to prevent a catastrophic crash. Morithel leapt clear once close enough to the ground and ran hell for leather, having no idea which way the Cybertronian would fall.

And fall it did, sounding like all the statues along Queen's Way brought to its top and flung down its stairs. The Cybertronian landed in an ungainly heap amid a pile of boulders. Its aura the bright scarlet of fury shot through with black arrows of severe pain, it hefted a rock taller than Morithel herself and lobbed it in her direction, missing by a handspan.

The rock shattered into gravel on impact, spraying Morithel and her surroundings with some force. Her retreat thus encouraged, Morithel sped back up the valley, wrenched the portal open, and dived through as if every Black Dog from the realm of demons bayed at her heels. She shut the portal after her, shut it completely.

Morithel stood in the courtesan's storeroom and nearly ripped the chevalier mirror to pieces, but thought better of it. The queen might have other preferences.

She pounded on the door. "Open up at once!"

Celemith obeyed, and shuddered when she saw the fury blazing in Morithel's eyes. "M-milady?"

Morithel reached in her belt pouch for a few coins; she tossed them to the girl, who was too frightened to pick them up. "If Prince Jaelin uses that portal again, get word to the Royal Guard as soon as he has gone through."

"Yes, milady!" said the girl. She cowered back against the the wall, and did not bend to the coins until the outer door slammed with Morithel's passage.

Drawing her tattered dignity around her like a cloak, Morithel strode down the colonnade, fury surrounding her in a palpable miasma. Passersby leapt for cover thirty feet from her.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Strika had two thoughts. One was that she would kill that organic the next time she found it. The other was that she might actually agree to share the Flock leadership if somebot could show her how to turn off her own pain sensors.

She thought longingly of Sawbones...then snapped herself out of it. She could no more call for help than she could (presently) fly.

She got one servo under herself, and half-raised her torso. Then she had to wait until the the "Imminent Shutdown" notices faded from her HUD.

The other servo, another wait. Sitting position. Wait some more. If she edged herself over _here_ she could lean against this rock...black washed in from the edge of her vision. She waited it, and the "Shutdown" notices, out.

When she could—her servos did not seem to be fully obedient—she fumbled her chestplates apart. The left one, at any rate; her right servo had no strength.

Strika wedged her elbow against a rock, but the problem seemed to be with the control pathways to the servo itself. Or so said her HUD.

She cursed it, and that _fragging_ organic as well; Morithel, unable to understand the language involved, might have been impressed by the energy rebounding from her shields.

Strika could reach across her chest...couldn't she? No, not quite. She found another rock, parked her left elbow against it, and half-turned herself to force the elbow across her chest.

Moderate success, after another wait for the HUD to shut up.

She pressed the latch, and her chestplate opened.

Rest followed. Of a sort. More like "quiescent suffering."

Inquiring digits found a bloody tiny magnetic _rock _nestled into her control nexus. She fumbled it free, and was amazed that something that small could cause so much pain.

Strika flexed her digits around the lodestone, preparatory to crushing it to powder. Then she hesitated...because the organic had left quite a large energy signature attached to it. And now that she had that committed to memory, she could track it across the valley to another rock outcropping, where it vanished.

Strika subspaced the damned rock, and five klicks later her HUD cleared her to fly. She lit delicately on the rock ledge in front of the other side of Jaelin's mirror just as her comms lit.

::General Strika?::

::Here. Report.::

::Clear across the board, sir. You had not checked in at your normal time and we became concerned.::

::I have discovered something of interest here,:: Strika sent, eyeing a square, shimmering outline on the rocks. ::Send two guards to my location. Replace them at shift change until further notice.::

When the twins, Dreadwing and Skyquake, arrived, Strika had pulled herself together, and drew their attention to the portal. Skyquake started to poke it with an inquisitive talon, and his brother slapped his servo away.

Before they had time for too much speculation, two of Swindle's Eradicon drones arrived. Strika ordered them to guard the portal, then she and the twins returned to New Darkmount.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Morithel joined a string of early-morning traffic bringing deliveries and the day shift of servants into the palace. Worse for wear following her altercation with the Cybertronian, Morithel took a series of back hallways and narrow staircases to the Royal Apartments' servants' entrance, where she sent a girl to inform Her Majesty that she had returned. While waiting for a reply, other servants brought her a wash basin and towels, milk and tea and pastries, while still others produced a clean tunic and brushed her tabard and cloak as clean as possible. The Royal Healer attended to a few scrapes left by flying gravel; until the man started fussing with them and made them sting, she had been flooded with enough adrenaline to completely ignore them. The food was welcome, for the adrenaline crash left her shaking and something to eat helped her to ground herself.

The girl returned and curtseyed deeply. "Milady, Her Majesty bids you come to her."

Morithel thanked the girl, buckled her belt over her tabard and settled her cloak around her shoulders, then bowed her thanks to the healer. Without delay, she reported to her queen in the same chamber where she had received her orders earlier in the night.

Medb listened without interruption to her account of the portal, its bleak destination, and her Knight's clash with the very large Cybertronian. Medb's aura, never easily readable unless she so intended, was mirrored glass. Nothing indicated her emotional state, so when she abruptly threw her crystal goblet into the fireplace with a furious cry, Morithel nearly jumped out of her skin. "My queen?"

"I have been more than patient with that ungrateful whelp! He has never lacked for anything that my kingdom could provide. I made sure he had the best teachers. All that I have ever wanted for him was his happiness, and to secure the realm for him after I pass beyond the veil. A few fortnights ago he came to me, having discovered that benighted place, all agog over the mineral wealth within its mountains. One small problem, he said, it had already been colonized by these mechanical beings—beings which have taken a tribe of Fomori into thrall! He would have had us exterminate them and take the place for ourselves. As if my lands had not been for the most part at peace for thrice his span of years, and fought no serious wars since my father's time! As if we had not enough mineral wealth in the stones around us to supply all our wants for as far as I can see! No. If it is there, he must have it, and to the hells with anything that stands in his way. I forbade any such expedition, and l ordered that place locked out of the public portals. And now? Now I find that Jaelin has defied me and created his own portal. He has made these clockwork warriors aware of us. Who is to say that they will not now envy the wealth of the Underhill? That little fool sought war. Well, he may have found it."

"My liege, what are your orders?"

Medb drew a ragged breath, and got herself under control. "None, at present. Do you believe the doxy will report back to us if my son uses that portal again?"

"I believe so. She did tell us of its presence in the first place."

"My dear lady Morithel, I have kept you from your rest and placed you in a most unpleasant situation, and as always, you have done an exemplary job of the task, every task if memory serves, which I set before you. Why Jaelin could not have taken you as a role model instead of that wastrel father of his, I have no idea. Had it not been my duty to the realm to marry that noble lout, and then pretend to mourn him, I might have found a better sire for my heir! Ach! Leave the discipline of the Prince to my consideration, for I would not act in haste and anger. Go and rest and enjoy yourself. You are welcome at my table this evening, if you wish to come to court, but I would well understand if you find the baths or your own bed more appealing. It can wait a day or three."

"I thank you, my queen, you are most generous," Morithel said to her friend and sovereign. She backed to the door, bowing.

Medb stood at a narrow window, its diamond-shaped leaded panes looking out into her small, private grotto, filled with crystals and multi-colored fungi of all description. Fae lights flitted among the crystals and mushrooms like a bevy of fireflies. Morithel had walked there with Medb on many occasions. Now, she wondered if the Unseelie Queen even saw it, so lost in her thoughts was she.

Morithel shut the door softly and turned to leave. Suddenly weary beyond words, she ordered a servant, "Have a carriage brought around for me."

"It shall be as you command, milady."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Ratchet finished going through a box of pre-scanned titanium bolts he did not like using. They were of human manufacture, and therefore far below Cybertronian standards: two to six out of every box of a hundred were flawed, and three or four of the rest unsuitable for medical use for one reason or another. He had to scan them one by one in order to pull out and discard the defective ones. None of the other medics could share in this work, as they hadn't the mods for it.

He finished this task, and got up from his desk. His hip joint grated painfully, and emitted a loud squeal as he did so. _Tattletale._

Mikaela Banes was performing the grunt work of the first sifting of bolts by running _every single one_ of the things through a Cybertronian scanner (which she had refused absolutely to use until Wheeljack redesigned it to be free of radioactive isotopes). She looked up from her work to the clock just when First Aid looked up from his own medical-records task to ask Ratchet, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just need a little oil."

"Would you like me to take care of that for you, Craftmaster?" Jolt offered.

"No, that's all right. I'll get it the next time I'm in the washracks." He forced a grin. "It's nothing."

Mollified, the youngster returned to his work.

Ratchet would in fact deal with it himself, but more than a little oil would be required. Like Ironhide, he had been in his frame a long time, and his structural components were showing their age. He hoped one more coat of spray lining would delay a complete refit of his joints for a(nother) short period, but that was coming, sooner or later.

And so was his first age-related reformat. He and Ironhide, survivors of much hardship, were alike in that both were approaching that milestone. And, of course, alike in the bad-tempered front both presented to the world, which was not proof against those with the wisdom to see straight through it. The wise ones were greater in number than either bristly, cranky mech would care to admit.

Mikaela shut her workstation down. "Ratchet, our meeting's coming up. I'll be back in just a bit."

Ah, yes. Her body had prepared to host a baby; as one had not been conceived, she would spend another day or so using the restroom frequently. That was something covered in the sensitivity training materials that Sam had insisted he _absolutely had_ to read, given an early, unfortunate comment about the young human's pheromones. But because of Sam's insistence he knew that he should not make any reference to the phenomenon in anyone's hearing other than Mikaela's, nor should he make any such reference regarding other human femmes: and in fact, he should have a very good reason, such as an imminent threat to the femme's health, for mentioning it at all. So Ratchet nodded without making further comment, and returned to his thoughts on possible reformatting.

If this raid on Soundwave's hideout resulted in the recovery of their stolen energon cubes, reformatting might become possible. He and Ironhide would yield their places in the line to some of the oldsters who had come in with Excellion. Those mecha were held together with beer cans and baling wire, in Chip's memorable phrase.

The elderly mecha would present no problem. All of them could be put into standard protoforms which, using Excellion's fabrication capability, Wheeljack could build, perhaps even before they salvaged the _Ark_.

Ironhide's case was more challenging. A warbuild frame came with bundles of manufacture-related challenges for an Earthbound force; they lacked the facilities which had once existed on Cybertron. He might have to change frame type to something more streamlined which carried less on-board artillery. If he wished to retain his present mass, necessary to deal with recoil, his new frame would of necessity be of greater size. That size would require greater material strength, of course. The severity of that particular problem rendered its solution dependent on what they might be able to salvage from the wreck of the _Ark_ on the moon; Earth's metallurgy was at best...primitive. The strength Ironhide needed could only be provided at a prohibitive weight. Cybertronians were as subject to the cube-square law as any other living being on Earth or off it.

But reformatting a medic frame was something else again. While Ratchet was a big sturdy mech, almost a warframe himself, his size wasn't the most serious issue.

Medics made modification after modification to their frames to perform their duties: at least they had done so before the Fall of Cybertron. Jolt and First Aid were the first generation of medics forced to train around the absence of those modifications.

In short, they were entering a dark age where they would remember the glories of Golden Age Cybertron, the wonders of that lost era, but remain unable to replicate them. Lost empires...

His hip caught again as he twisted to put the box of sorted bolts into a supply cabinet. With a chirr of deep annoyance, he reached for a container of medical grade oil and applied a little to the sticking mechanism. Relief was immediate, and would suffice until he could give it more attention after his shift.

A few moments later, the door opened to admit Moonracer, Jolt and Perceptor; Chip and Mikaela, holding hands, followed shortly after: the meeting was imminent.

No one expected Soundwave and his gang to simply surrender quietly, and this was one of many, many planning sessions around the raid Optimus' forces would shortly launch against Megatron's highest-ranking surviving officer.

Perceptor ascended the human-friendly staircase to the top of Ratchet's desk to get closer to optic-level with the others, and Chip was happy to demonstrate his chair's climbing ability.

Both Ratchet and Wheeljack were intensely aware of Mikaela's stress while the chair climbed. That meant there were still some problems...or perhaps that the stair's run-to-rise wasn't correct. Ratchet added checking that out to a to-do list of 4,637, _not one_ of which would he forget. It was priority #37.

Priority #1 was here and now, in front of him. "So, who's on the go-team?" he asked.

Jolt said, "Craftmaster, if you will allow it, I think the Protectobots and I should go, First Aid and I in a paramedic capacity, and Aid's brothers to provide extra mech power if we need it. That will make Defensor available, close by the triage area, in reserve, in case something should go badly during the raid and we end up closer to the battlefield than we intended."

Ratchet nodded thoughtfully. "There's something to be said for having younger bots setting up the triage area at the command center. I'm getting a little too old for that slag."

Wheeljack snorted, his experience with the Wreckers coming to the fore. "You? Old? Exhaust fumes. And if Blitzwing's rage personality is dominant, he would mop the floor with Defensor."

First Aid huffed a little, affronted by that assessment.

Ratchet shrugged. "We're not at war anymore, Aid. I think Defensor could probably take Blitzy in a fight, but Blitzy wouldn't get up from it, and Defensor would sustain heavy damage. I know a few more tricks than you do about containing a mentally unstable, combative mech without further damaging him. And Jazz has an extremely good shot at being able to correct the programming errors that caused his personality to fragment in the first place. If there's a chance to give him a place in this universe after the war, I think we owe it to him and all of Cybertron to try. If he's still a fragger after that, that will be him and not his glitch. He'll be able to change if he wants to."

First Aid said, "At least let us assist you. We're first responders. We need more experience with front-line medicine and staging-area triage anyway."

"That'll work. There are never enough trained servos in a triage area," Ratchet agreed, nodding. His thought was that First Aid's brothers were not medics, but they were trained in first-response level care; their presence might make the difference in the first few moments before a certified medic got there.

And he certainly didn't mind having a few strong young backstruts around to set up equipment and move heavy patients, so he would happily draft them as orderlies. They would be able to assist the human medics as well.

Ratchet looked as his tiny co-worker. "Percy, that leaves you here in Mission City to hold down the fort, with Jackie, Jolt, Kaela, Chip, and Moonracer here."

"In that case, Ratch, I think we have it covered."

The two medics shared a smile. Both had been sharply aware of being the only fully-qualified healer within parsecs. They'd be happy to define "luxury" as "Being able to divide the medical assets between a go-team and home base, with both areas adequately staffed."

Percy asked, "Should I set up home base here or aboard Excellion?"

"Facilities are better aboard Excellion, but you might have trouble getting some of the bigger mecha where they need to go aboard him. I'm thinking you might make this your triage area, then once a patient is stable and able to assist in his own transfer, he can be moved to Excellion."

The microscope nodded. "Yes, you're right. We'll set up for emergency treatment and intensive care here, and then we can move them to Excellion after they're ready for a regular medical berth. Apprentices, I'll need you to help me move some of Excellion's portable intensive care equipment into the medbay here." He sent them a file. "If we're finished here, Ratchet, I'd like to get that done."

"Sounds good."

Moonracer transformed, Perceptor sprang lightly from Ratchet's desk to her driver's seat, and they led the parade of apprentices to Excellion's pad.

Chip asked, "What about us?"

Ratchet sent a file to Kaela's datapad, which contained a list of names and amounts of various human-manufactured coolants, oils, sealers, and solvents. "Check those against inventory and see the base quartermaster about bringing anything we're low on up to specs. I don't want to hear that they can't get it, because I know they can, and those are the amounts I'll need to be sure I don't lose bots for lack of supplies."

The two humans headed for the supply room.

Wheeljack turned to Ratchet, once they had the bot side of the medbay to themselves again. "What started this old-age stuff, anyway?"

"It's true, Jackie. I've worn through another set of hip joint linings."

"That's nothing that we can't repair."

"I know, _Apprentice. _But this is a symptom, not a condition. What conditions are indicated by excessive joint lining wear?"

"Very well, Craftmaster. It could be an alignment issue, it could be overuse, or it could be simple excessive wear and tear. It isn't necessarily an indication of a worn-out frame."

"And how would you make that diagnosis?"

"I'd schedule the patient for a full-frame scan, and if necessary, core samples of load-bearing struts to look for microfractures that are not being properly remodeled. If I found that, I'd also want to look at the patient's repair nanites. And...may I assume you've already done that?"

"I have. —Test results file."

Wheeljack looked it over. "These are some very uneven results, Ratch. You must have had the Pit of a drastic rebuild."

"I have. I had heavier struts installed soon after the war started. I needed a stronger frame and heavier armor to be a front-line medic. My joints were already heavy-duty, so I saved a few shanix by replacing only the struts."

"I can imagine that scanning and fabrication mods were more critical at the time," Wheeljack said. "But now, your hip, shoulder and knee assemblies are all at a point where they are going to need to be replaced in the near future. Your repair nanites could use a refresher, too, if we can recover our energon cubes from those fraggin' thieves!"

"Easy there, Wrecker," Ratchet said with a grin, not bothering to hide from Jackie that his membership in that clan was one of the many things that Ratchet found hot, as the humans would put it, about the inventor.

"I know, I know." Jack sighed, and closed the file.

"What else do you conclude from these results?"

"Ah, that you're right, of course, as usual. You're on track for a reformat. But you can probably put it off for as long as a vorn, with diligent preventive care—which I fully intend to see that you get."

Ratchet glowered at his lover, then "Humphed" and turned away. The nanny-bot experience was significantly different from this side of the proverbial exam table.

A thought poked its head up in Ratchet's processor. He ruthlessly deflected it. But Ratchet, whose very profession, whose very _life_, required that he look unpleasant thoughts square in their non-existent optic, hadn't enough practice to keep up that barrier very long. Three point three-two-six micro-milli-kliks later, the thought triumphed: It felt good to have someone looking out for him.

He wouldn't have admitted it under torture, of course, but there lay a smug little source of satisfaction: he felt loved.

His lover, meanwhile, kept himself busy. One part of Wheeljack's processor was cataloging their inventory and determining what critical parts he should ask Excellion to begin fabricating, and in what order. Another subprocessor was studying medic frames and figuring out what miracles he would have to work to build one fit for the Prime of his own spark.

Therefore, he paid no attention to the glower, and knew the medic well enough to dismiss the "Humph."

End Part Five


	6. Chapter 6

Part Six

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Near Omaha, Jazz had taken advantage of his forced immobility to nap while Warp slept. He was intensely worried about Arturo, as he would have been for any of his operatives. But if Arturo needed him, he had to be at his best.

Both Jazz and Warp got yanked out of a sound sleep by a hard kick. It was extremely unsafe to rouse any spec ops mech that way, and only Jazz' complete dissociation from Warp's physical control subroutines saved Lugnut's life. Only Jazz' own ruthless self-control kept him from betraying his presence to Warp.

Warp roused in panic, and there was the big ox, smirking. He said only, "Boss wants ya."

Warp was too busy scrambling out of the barn to notice Jazz getting himself back together, which was a good thing. The spy rarely went into deep recharge, and was usually peripherally aware of what was going on in the room. Warp, on the other hand, slept like the dead, and Jazz had been taken along for the ride. They were in total agreement that a kick in the aft from that big slagger was a stinking way to start the morning. Warp kept his grumbling to himself—and, unwittingly, to Jazz—as he trudged over to the farmhouse.

Jazz was close enough to use Warp's passive sensors to detect organic life signs, and he found three sets, spaced out to match the upstairs bedrooms, if the windows were any indication. None of them seemed to show any particular distress. It was Sunday morning; the organics were sleeping in.

Soundwave came out on the porch. "There you are. Warp, this morning I want you to check all the exterior cameras. Be careful to keep your holoform up while checking the ones across from the farmhouse down the road."

"Yes, sir."

Jazz kept his elation behind his firewalls with difficulty as he got a guided tour of the whole base, as well as a map of the hideout's video surveillance. He didn't think that intel would be essential to the plan, but send the information to Prowl? Absolutely. One never knew what might be needed.

At the northeast corner of the property line was a crossroads of two farm lanes, the one that went past the hideout and another that went north-south. No one, and no farmhouse or outbuilding, was anywhere near. Rather than walking his holoform back from the fence line, Warp simply derezzed it and rezzed another in his driver's seat. He backed up and rolled south, optics on the road on the other side of the fence.

Warp did not share his unwitting passenger's elation. It would be so easy to jump that fence and take off. Head north, somewhere in Canada, and just fall off the grid. All he would have to do was swipe an energon cube and disappear, he mused, desperately unhappy and unaware that Jazz was listening.

But then what? And what if the Autobots showed up? What if he got damaged?

Like millions of other abused, hopeless kids with no good way out, one day, Warp would jump that fence and go. But, today, he wasn't quite that desperate yet. With a long, miserable ex-vent, he continued to mope south to the next camera.

Jazz was more determined than ever to keep the kid safe, but right now he had a job to do. He created a very detailed map of the property, carefully marking all the security cameras, as well as noting irrigation points, fences, ditches, large rocks, trees, and anything else that might prove to be an obstruction: potential hazards like power lines and fuel tanks.

He also mapped as far as his sensors would allow into the adjoining properties. Fights did not always remain where they started, so he noted vulnerable points that would need to be protected if the fighting spilled over the airstrip's boundaries.

Once the map was as complete as he could make it, the next time Warp recharged, Jazz would push it back to his frame, where Prowl could retrieve it.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Bumblebee and Mirage skirted Omaha, and headed north from Offutt AFB, in order to avoid its big-city traffic cameras. Very likely Soundwave was monitoring those. Sticking to minor highways, the Camaro and the Ferrari passed through Omaha's suburban sprawl and miles and miles of cornfield and cattle pasture.

The fields had begun to show signs of spring, although the nights were still very cold. Farmers were readying them for planting, which would begin as soon as the low temps stayed above freezing. Mostly this "readying" consisted of repairing the damages of cold, ice and wind, but here and there large equipment was already working.

The town of Blair, Nebraska was a few miles south of Soundwave's hideout. Large enough to have steady traffic during the day, yet small enough not to have the sophisticated electronic systems boasted by a large city such as Omaha, it was very promising as a possible staging area.

After a little exploration, they discovered an unused shopping mall on the outskirts of town. A large discount department store had moved to new accommodations, and the little flock of small shops and fast-food places which had grown up around it had migrated along with it, leaving their old digs to accumulate a few windblown plastic bags and an abandoned pickup truck.

The scout and the infiltrator scanned that truck very carefully. No electrical field, no hint of energon, no spark signature―it was exactly what it seemed to be, a decrepit human vehicle which had lost its last vestige of usefulness on this lot, left to rust down.

Bee asked, ::What do you think?::

Mirage looked around. While not completely hidden from the highway, the presence of three empty fast-food buildings along the roadside provided quite a bit of privacy to the parking lot, which was surrounded on the other three sides by storefronts. "An acceptable staging area. I'm sure the Aerialbots would have preferred the absence of these light poles, but should they need to bring injured to the field hospital, a pole or two could easily be removed. There will be plenty of room for us grounders."

Bee agreed, and compiled detailed scans of the area. ::Bumblebee, Prowl.::

::Go ahead, Bumblebee.::

::Sir, we have located a possible staging area in Blair. Stand by for a scan packet.::

::Thank you, you may transmit when ready.::

::Transmitting.::

Prowl received, vetted and opened the packet. ::Very nice, this appears to suit our needs perfectly.::

::Preparing to commence recon operations. Has there been any new intel which we should take into account?::

::Negative. Stay safe out there.::

::Roger that, Prowl. Bumblebee out.::

Mirage said, "Here, take an end of this. We'll move it over there out of the way."

Bumblebee chirped agreement, and the two of them relocated the rusting truck to an out-of-the-way corner of the lot. The young scout told himself sternly that it was _nothing at all_ like dumping a body.

Had Mirage known he was thinking that, he might have reassured Bee that no, it wasn't.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The door opened, and Greta Morse blew in, along with a pint and a half of rain and a gust of wind.

Annika Whitt raised eyes that no longer needed correction from a book she could hold in her own servos, and said, "Greta, you are...well, 'soaked' doesn't apply any more, does it?"

Greta grinned. "Just a second." She went back outside and shook like a dog, returning seconds later much drier. Unsubspacing a towel, she got to work on herself. Two of the perks of being a Pretender...

"They yell at you for bein' out so late?" said Soletta.

"A little bit. I made curfew by 10 minutes by speed-walkin' home. I think I was goin' twenty miles an hour through the forest paths. Slowed down when they could see me from the guard shack. Got my butt chewed; hung my head and said 'Yes, sir' and 'No, sir' and _fully_ intend to do this again," Greta said with a grin. She hung the towel to dry and took her favorite chair.

"You gonna be a problem, girl, for the chain of command," Soletta Davis said. Her own grin might have been a little envious.

"She hasn't been so far, though, have you, G?" Nita Clay asked.

"I was too sick to do much hiking when I got here," Greta said, "or I might have been. The trails in Forest Park, though, they all lead down into Portland. I went to Powell's! It's three stories! You can get lost in there! The staff will rescue you if you do! I didn't leave until they ran me out at closing! They even have this little coffee-and-pastry thing inside it. Man, I hope Wheeljack gets those energy-converters finished soon. I could smell stuff that made me hungry all over again."

They all laughed. Been there, done that. A restaurant called "Toast" came quite highly recommended by the staff, and its food smelled, as Nita put it, somewhere beyond excellent. But lacking the mods Wheeljack was developing for being able to taste food, even use it for energy, Toast's offerings were reduced to a mouthful of mulch.

"So, Greta," said Annika Witt, "you left before you could tell us anything about this new interviewer we must all see. He is a Pretender too?"

"Yeah, Emery McKuen. Not a bad guy for a shrink."

"What did you talk about?"

"Well, transitioning, mostly." Greta said. "Guy's kind of a poet. He said that each of us has accepted that the chapter in our lives titled 'Active Duty' had been closed by the hand of age, disability, illness, or all three together.

"Then our next chapter had revolved around meds schedules, procedures. He said we fought for our lives on a new battlefield."

Annika Witt raised her eyebrows. "That really is quite poetic."

Each of them knew that that chapter had required a different sort of courage than going under cover in Iron Curtain-era Eastern Europe, or risking the hazards of Afghanistan in which the lurking menace of a possible IED had not been the only danger, or flinging the fragile shell of an Osprey against twenty-five feet of enraged Decepticon. This new courage was a quieter sort, unheralded, often unsupported.

That last part had been hardest. Nita and Soletta had each other. Annika and Greta lacked any support, Annika alone but without privacy, Greta physically isolated.

"And then," Greta offered, "he said that Will Lennox or Charlotte Mearing had closed that chapter, and opened this one. What was it he said? Oh yeah, 'Danger surrounds you no less intimately than it did in your former careers.' An' you know what? That's a guy went into battle against _Optimus Prime_. "

Soletta grinned. "He black? If he is I got a crush on him already. He ain't, an' I'm gonna go 'Friend' him on Facebook."

They all laughed.

Annika said, "I do not know about any of the rest of you, but I found what Milestrina had to say most interesting."

"Me too," Soletta said. "First thing I did was cancel my life insurance. I'll outlive the damn company."

"So will we all, unless we're unlucky," Nita said. "Milestrina, though, she's been alive since before ancestral humanoids migrated from Africa. We'll see this culture become another, and another after that, and another after that."

Annika offered, "I was most interested in the Cybertronian culture. Utterly unlike our own, but available to us now."

"If," said Greta, "we manage not to offline ourselves."

"It's not so very likely if transition didn't do it," Annika offered.

"Gonna go stir crazy if they keep us cooped up here much longer," Soletta grumbled. "We ain't goin' to Mission City just yet."

Nita shrugged. "We've still got things to learn. I didn't know recharge did as much as it does; did any of you?"

"The parallels to sleep are fairly obvious," Annika pointed out.

"Some of the processes have no parallel. Humans don't top off the storage batteries that power their systems during sleep."

"Self-repair's pretty much the same between the species," Greta said.

Soletta offered, "Yeah, and defragging a processor and storing new memories? Humans call that 'dreaming.'"

"Speaking of which, it's midnight, and we have PT at six," Nita said.

"Let's get our written stuff reviewed and catch the end of the Late Show," Greta said, optics snapping. "They've got a bluegrass group on at 1:25. How often does that happen?"

Soletta could have said, "Way too often for my taste, babe," but didn't.

The femmes, as they had begun to think of themselves, followed this plan. If Soletta turned in early, pleading a processor ache, nobody busted her for it.

Ten minutes after the Late Show ended, all four had returned to their rooms for the night, and plugged their recharge cables into the grid.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Optimus Prime's office held a lot of bodies and frames at the moment, and only the minority were human-sized.

Lennox, Zain, and Glasco had plenty of room atop Prime's desk, but Prowl, Ironhide and Ratchet arranged themselves carefully in the open area in front of that desk. Prowl, dwarfed by the weapons specialist and the medic, resorted to sitting on the corner of Optimus' desk opposite the human-sized furniture.

The first question of this raid-planning session fell to him. Optimus asked, "Has Jazz reported anything new?"

"Not yet. He will be transmitting a packet sometime during fourth joor," Prowl replied. The tactician broadcast his usual air of calm unflappability, but Optimus had known him too long to be fooled by that. An undercurrent of concern for Jazz flowed very strongly under the Praxian's cool demeanor.

It wouldn't keep Prowl from doing his job, though Optimus could wish him less—fraught—for his own sake.

The Prime shifted his attention to his fully-human ally. "Colonel Lennox, does NEST require anything of us in these last few joor leading up to the raid?"

NEST's good-looking CO shook his head. "No. I spoke to Director Mearing a short time back, and we are go to proceed as planned."

"Mr. Zain, what is S14's status?"

"Also green across the board, sir," said a Pretender who still looked preppy, even in clothes extruded and not bought from Brooks Brothers.

"Medical?"

Ratchet scowled, and everyone not physically fully human flinched. "We haven't got the energon shipment from 51 yet, Optimus. I can't sign off on readiness without those extra rations."

"We cannot risk a security breach by discussing this over the comms channels. Prowl, send couriers to find out what is causing the delay. Hot Rod and Bluestreak are the fastest mecha we have who are not assigned to the raid. Vector them across country to 51 where possible, to avoid the human speed limits."

"Yes, Prime."

"Ironhide, armaments?"

"Full load all around," his foster-father replied. "Que has extra energy cells charged up for your ion cannon and other people's beam weapons. Just a helms-up, I've switched out all my high-damage shells for midrange loads. There's one farm right across the road from Soundwave's base and a couple more unacceptably close. What I'll be carrying should do the job, but I can't guarantee that where Lugnut and Blitzwing are concerned." He looked over at Lennox, Zain, and Glasco, explaining for their benefit, "They're triple changers, not your typical Seekers. Their ground modes give them some respectably heavy armor in their root and aerial modes. They've always been trouble."

Prowl said, "The presence of Superion shifts the odds considerably in our favor, as long as the front line can deal with the triple-changer whom he is not fighting."

Prime nodded to his lead tactician. "It is not inconceivable that the triple-changers could keep the entire front line very busy indeed. If that happens, Mr. Zain, then the task of apprehending Soundwave may well fall to S14."

"He won't get past us, sir."

Optimus believed that. Soundwave in a Pretender frame would have no size advantage, and he'd watched the training sessions between Zain's group and his own. Individually and as a group, these reverse-Pretenders were fearsome fighters.

Back to business. "Does anyone have anything else to discuss?"

"What team will the Prime Consort be on, Optimus?" Ironhide asked.

Optimus glanced at Prowl. "I had thought to put Diarwen with the scouts at the beginning of the engagement. As events develop, it may be advantageous to send her elsewhere, but she and I concur that initially, her talents will be of most use in that position."

"I agree," Prowl said, very benign (he liked Diarwen). "Even without her energetic abilities, she is a consummate scout. I suggest partnering her with Mirage, or barring that, send her to me, since I will be providing the tacnet, and can send her where she will be most effective."

Optimus considered. It was possible for another, smaller mech or a humanoid to share Mirage's cloaking ability, but Diarwen and Mirage had not trained together. Prowl, on the other hand, had been part of their morning circle since his return to them several months ago. "Very well; I will assign her to you. I suggest that everyone get some rest. We are wheels up at 0100 hours."

"Sir," Zain and Lennox chorused, as Prowl, Ironhide and Ratchet sent acknowledgement glyphs.

Zain and Glasco could have done so as well, Optimus knew, but the habit of communicating in English was one more indication that they, like their people, remained far more human than Cybertronian: fully adjusting to their new status might take them several human lifetimes. They could, and did, transmit glyphs, but it was always an afterthought for the Pretenders, and they never seemed certain that they were sending precisely the correct ones.

Among themselves, they spoke aloud as they always had unless silence was necessary—and even then they used the more familiar military sign language unless they were out of sight of one another.

Not that it mattered. All the bots spoke English fluently, even the ones who had come in with Excellion, and most had learned at least one other human language as well. (Jazz, who finally had somebot to practice his Nepali with, was overjoyed.) And any sign language was easy for those whose servos were articulated roughly along the human plan. The Autobots' association with NEST had assured their familiarity with the US military version.

Optimus found a sunny spot and transformed to alt mode, parking at the best angle to catch the sun. After all these years as a soldier he was no stranger to resting when circumstances allowed, but he still had to manually (so to speak) shut down several planning sequences involving Soundwave.

With the Decepticon telepath out of commission, the Cybertronians under the Prime's care would be one step closer to securing this system, benefitting both themselves and the humans.

The Prime considered that objective a strategic necessity, given the intelligence that Borealis had brought with her. Strika's machinations took place further out in the galactic arm, but Earth lay within her reach. Optimus needed to consolidate his own holdings if he were going to defend against her.

And if Soundwave were in his custody and out of the game, Optimus might be able to prevent a resurgence of the Decepticon cause under Strika, Megatron's most loyal general.

He let that thought dissipate, and entered recharge.

End Part Six


	7. Chapter 7

Part Seven

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

What he and Blue were doing really didn't feel like a mission, Hot Rod thought guiltily, speeding across arid, empty Nevada with Bluestreak. It felt like fun.

Rodi and Blue had to drive around the hills scattered across the landscape between Mission City and Groom Lake, and the condition of that landscape kept them from exceeding two hundred miles an hour. This, however, beat sixty-five; they trimmed twenty miles off the freeway distance as well, and arrived at Groom Lake forty-two minutes after leaving Mission City.

It took another ten minutes to get through Groom Lake's security, and then they were escorted to one of a number of featureless white hangar buildings. Around them, planes took off and landed regularly.

Most personnel in the buildings performed tasks equivalent to exactly what it said on the tin: "Aviation Research."

However, none of the signs said, "For further details, enquire within." And around the perimeter were signs which said, "Trespassers shot on sight. Survivors prosecuted by the Feds," although they used more formal language.

A few of the buildings inside those signs labeled "Aviation Research" gave Area 51 its fabled reputation. "Aviation research" well beyond the standard definition of same took place therein.

It was in a building like this one that Dr. Pierpoint had discovered the process of transition from a human body to a Pretender frame. Rodi considered the possible inverse of that process and shivered in the middle of the hot parking lot.

An Air Force lieutenant whose name tag read "Evers" came out. "Hot Rod, Bluestreak, welcome to Groom Lake. How can I help you?"

Rodi's grin was usually disarming, but this individual was all business, and he could feel from her fields that dealing with him was keeping her out of a cockpit somewhere. "Lt. Evers, I sure hope you can. Recognition code Charlie Sierra Romeo."

"Seven-Seven-One-Four-Niner," she replied.

"The ball hasn't made it to home base."

"I see. Follow me, please." She led the way through a hangar door so tall and wide it made the Cybertronians feel small. Their steps echoed in the cavernous hangar interior, where huge flight frames rested under canvas drapes that would have put a big top to shame. Rodi got a glimpse of flat black metal before a technician driving a small tractor adjusted the drape to hide it.

Rodi didn't ask. He was quite certain that if these people told him anything about what was going on here, they would have to shoot him; it was very likely that they already had, or could invent at short notice, the means to do so.

Lieutenant Evers consulted with a major, then the two of them spoke to a bird colonel. Evers returned, looking even more serious. "The convoy carrying the ball left here at 1400 hours. They should have arrived."

Rodi asked, "Do you have a map of their intended route? With all due respect, Blue and I can look for them without attracting the attention that a military search would."

Evers looked at the colonel, who nodded. "Get him the map, LT. I'll put a few birds in the air as well, but I'd rather not attract attention with a full search unless they aren't somewhere along their route."

"Yes, sir."

The colonel gave Rodi and Blue a contact number. "If you find them and everything is all right, call that number and say home run. If you need assistance, give the coordinates and say umpire. If you get back to Mission City without locating them, then the code will be foul ball, and we'll scramble a formal search."

"Thank you, Colonel. If they're along that route, we'll find them."

They transformed to their alt mode and followed their guide's Humvee back to the gate. Once they were outside the fence, Blue asked anxiously, "You don't think Sounders' gang found them, do you? I thought Jazz had them all accounted for."

Rodi said, "All the ones we know of. Doesn't mean he doesn't have other agents. But I don't know how he could have found out. Security has been really tight."

The approach of a string of cars ended that conversation. Rodi slotted into the outside lane behind Blue and they pushed the speed limit as much as they dared. Except for a short westward jog on I-15, their route led pretty much due south on US 93 and 95.

Much of what was located in the Nevada desert had been put there because Nevada, except for Reno, Vegas, and possibly Elko, was the middle of sandy nowhere. A military convoy could easily disappear into it without a trace.

Hot Rod spoke aloud to suggest, "Let's split up. You go east of the highway and I'll go west. Keep the highway on your sensors so that our coverage overlaps in the median strip. Ping me if you see anything."

"OK."

The two Cybertronians assumed those positions, whereupon nothing happened for miles and miles of miles and miles. Then Rodi's sensors picked up a number of vehicles ahead: a tractor-trailer full of logs had jackknifed and spilled its cargo across the highway. Several trailing vehicles had been struck by logs, collided with one another, or run off the road, becoming stuck in the sand. The injured had already been flown to area hospitals, so the paramedics were gone, but several police and firefighters were still there, with work crews clearing the highway. Several uninjured motorists formed a contentious gaggle flocking around a few of the uniformed personnel at the side of the road.

Rodi and Blue slowed down, focusing their sensors. Blue found tracks where several large vehicles with tire tracks consistent with the missing convoy had turned off the highway onto a narrow road; Rodi consulted his map.

The convoy had detoured onto one of the alternate routes that the Air Force mapped out for it. That route followed back roads and rejoined the highway several miles south.

Rodi's orders were to maintain radio silence, but he dearly wished he could ask Prowl to find out what the human authorities knew about the cause of the wreck. Once certain he was out of sight of the emergency crew working to clear the highway, he stopped, pinged Blue, and waited for the young scout to join him.

Arriving, Blue said, "What do you think, Rodi?"

"I dunno. Why don't you circle around and go check out the intersection where this road joins back up with the highway? Send me a single ping if the convoy got back on the highway. If they did, I'll cut cross-country and catch up with you. Otherwise, come back up this road and we'll meet in the middle. Send me a double ping if you find the convoy before I do. Three pings is something wrong, be careful but get here fast."

Blue nodded and took off.

Hot Rod continued down the narrow country road, scanning ahead for indications that the convoy might have taken another turn-off.

There were few of those. In order to leave the road, they'd have had to go off-road and cross the playa. Doing so would present no obstacle to the Air Force's deuce-and-a-half trucks, but why would their drivers have chosen that route? The convoy would immediately become conspicuous.

The Prime candidate saw more sets of tracks come in from one of the area's narrow canyons; those tracks crossed the basin to fall in behind the convoy. He picked out three sets of treads that could be anything from a small armored vehicle to a pickup or an SUV, but didn't quite match any of them.

He could not discount the possibility of Cybertronians in alt-mode, but who that might be, he didn't know. The Dreads had been reported killed in DC after the beltway dustup with Ironhide and Sideswipe; the remaining 'Cons preferred flight modes, so there weren't that many grounder 'Cons, and most were accounted for.

Rodi supposed it could be Vehicon drones, but these tire tracks indicated heavier alt modes than were usual for Vehicons, and where would Vehicons have come from in the first place? The evidence was adding up to humans for Rodi.

He scented spilled gasoline and explosives, possibly gunpowder. A human in a convertible with the top down couldn't perceive it, but Rodi had the Wrecker sensory mods. They allowed his sensory array to detect volatile substances and alert him while the concentrations of those substances were still low enough to avoid an explosion (a Wrecker hoped). He sent a triple ping to Blue.

He slowed to a crawl when the odor became stronger, and began to be very careful about pulling into corners. Five or six more along the way, he nosed around a rock outcropping, and stopped.

One vehicle, overturned, looked more like an armored SUV than the US military's armored personnel carriers. The windshield was shattered and streaked with blood, and both the driver and the man in the front passenger seat hung dead in their seatbelts, riddled with bullets.

Two more bodies lay in the back, flung into corners and sharp edges when the vehicle crashed, to judge from the fluid smears, Rodi thought. The back door had been kicked open from the inside, so at least one passenger had survived in fighting condition.

Rodi transformed and scanned one of the corpses. His uniform had been a dull olive green, not the camouflage pattern worn by the Air Force, and he carried no ID, no wallet, no dogtags.

The humans had a term for an unidentifiable deader: "John Doe." How strange. Rodi had known personally every dead Wrecker whose frame he had recovered, and most of the 'Cons he had killed.

He returned to the here-and-now to analyze gases present in minute amounts in the air; that told him that all these John Does had been dead for several hours.

Another hundred yards along the two-lane road, he found the convoy, and ducked for cover as someone opened fire, swiftly followed by more rounds headed his way. "Hey, hold your fire, I'm an Autobot! I've come to help!"

A hoarse, weary voice shouted, "Hang fire!"

Rodi cautiously broke cover, and when there were no more shots fired, approached the line of stalled vehicles. He wasn't sure what had caused them to stall, simultaneously from the look of it; they were parked much as if they had simply lost power and coasted to a stop, the safe driving distance between them maintained. He did note that all their batteries were drained.

The front and back vehicles were devoid of life signs. More corpses were scattered around all of them. The majority wore the plain green BDUs of the attackers, but a few, near the front and back trucks, had been Air Force personnel. They had worn or carried small electronics, watches, phones. The phones had been switched off and were fine, but the watches, along with everything else working at the moment of attack, were completely drained of power.

An EMP? Maybe something similar to the gun the Pretenders had used on Icy and Wheeljack? Some weird null-ray? Rodi didn't know.

Rodi sent a double-click to Bluestreak, then routed his comms through an earth satellite so that no one would be able to tell that the call had not originated from a human satellite phone, and sent the coordinates and the distress code that the colonel at Area 51 had given him.

The only life signs came from inside the vehicles. His targeting computer figured vectors. Some of the SFs caught outside had got a few shots off but most of the defensive fire had come from inside the vehicles. The back of one hung open, but its load of energon cubes had protected its occupants from small arms fire.

"What happened? Are you injured? I'm here to help."

He was met only by silence, and after several unsuccessful attempts to get the Air Force Security Force troops inside to open up, he unloaded the cubes.

Doing so, he discovered that one had been opened, and its contents lowered by roughly the human measure called a "gallon." He frowned over that, and set that cube aside from the others so that he could check on the airmen.

They, however, stayed behind a locked door. When Rodi came under their sites via a gun loop, he had to dodge more bullets.

"Come on, guys, don't shoot at me. I'm Hot Rod, an Autobot, and I've been sent here because you missed scheduled delivery."

The door the survivors sheltered behind opened cautiously. "Oh...yeah...we did," said a blond airman, obviously not a new recruit. He gave Rodi a loopy smile.

He didn't look or sound like he was entirely with the program, Rodi thought. "Who's in charge here?"

"It was...it was Bukowski, but he caught it right at the beginning. Sivers was next down the line..."

"Axton was in charge'a th' first vehicle," said another, younger, darker man.

Rodi said, slowly, "Nobody survived in the first or last vehicles. Who's commanding this one? And the third?"

It required patience and some sorting out. The most senior man in this vehicle proved to be the blond fellow, whose name was Roose. Unfortunately, the chain of command had been entirely wiped out. No one sitting in any driver's or passenger's seat had survived.

"Look," Rodi said, patience foremost, "something's happened to you guys, and I don't know what it is. I think you should sit down in the shade, and maybe drink some water, if you've got any."

The airmen looked at one another. Then Roose said, "'F those guys come back, can you give 'em a good scrap? 'Cause I dunno about everybody else, but my reflexes're shot. Only way I can hit somebody is to get 'em to hold still first."

"Yeah, I can put up a fight. My partner's on the way, and he can too."

"Well, 'kay, then. Less get some water and siddown."

This was accomplished, if slowly. Rodi said again, "So tell me: what happened? Report."

Perhaps that was the magic word that jump-started their processors, but the airmen straightened where they sat. Roose said, "We were doin' forty-five or so when all of a sudden the engines just died. Weirdest thing I've ever seen; no impact, just no speed anymore, nothin'. The trucks bounced around and rolled to a stop. We, we, we...I dunno how to say this, but we got stupid all of a sudden. When we stopped, the drivers got out, and most of our command staff, they were ridin' in the passenger seats, did too. That's when somebody opened fire on 'em. We all fell back on our trainin', you know. It was our job to guard the cargo, so we took what shots we could through the loops. We couldn't aim very well, and when we heard somebody scrabblin' around the back of the truck, we couldn't see nobody back there..." here Roose's words trailed off, and he wrinkled his brow. "But then they broke it off."

The dark man said, "It was like havin' a thick sheet of plastic between you and everything you thought. Couldn't hold on to an idea. It was like being drunk, sort of. Drunk and really sick with the flu at the same time."

"We stayed where we were," said a younger man, also dark. "Glad you came by before we ran outta water."

"Okay. You guys stay in the shade of the truck, okay? It's pretty warm out here."

Rodi coaxed the occupants of the other vehicle to open up: "Come on, fellas, fresh air can't hurt anything."

Roose finally got up and walked around to the area under a firing loop. "Hey, guys, it's me, Roose. I ain't been harmed, and in fact the guy who came by, he's an Autobot, and an okay sorta fella. He's been helpin' us. You can come on out."

They were in no better shape than the other survivors, and their stories were consistent with the other men's. Nobody had any other details to add.

The Wrecker did not detect any chemicals in the air; if gas was used against the military men, it had dissipated.

Blue arrived, and upon his transformation half the addled guys drew their sidearms, and the other half groped for them. Blue raised his servos and yelped, "I'm with him!" about the same time Rodi shouted, "Friend! He's a friend!"

Rodi left the airmen in Blue's company in the shade, and went to investigate. Motorcycle tracks led to the back of the truck which had its tailgate open.

Somehow, somebody had ridden a motorcycle right up to the back of the truck, stolen part of a jug of energon, then left with it. All of that without coming under fire himself.

Hot Rod would have liked five minutes alone with the slagger; the slagger wouldn't have liked it at all. But Rodi did have to admit the squishy had the bearings of a Wrecker to pull that off. (A human might have said "the balls of a brass monkey.")

The rest of the attackers were very, very dead. Rodi, acquainted as he was with NEST, was not surprised by that at all.

But that thought led him to concern over the condition of the SF personnel now coming cautiously out of the beastly hot trucks. They were...confused? He didn't know enough about humans to come up with the right glyph. NEST personnel in the same situation would have been looking for some ass to kick. Rodi paid the survivors the compliment of believing they would have too if they were up to speed, and that they weren't meant they had overwhelming physical issues.

Humans could and did fight on with debilitating wounds, but these men weren't wounded physically. They were able to stand up and walk around, if slowly, and they could process simple statements and requests. Judging from the bodies on the ground, they were still good marksmen, although physical combat would have been beyond them.

Clearly they had fallen back on their earliest training, and that had been sufficient to defend the convoy against all their as-yet unidentified attackers except one.

He returned to the trucks the airmen were using as shade. Some of them were getting up and walking to their dead.

Rodi knew that would only hamper the human investigators. "Fellas. Rest in the shade of the trucks, where you can get a breeze, and have some water. Your teams are on the way. Don't make it harder for them."

The Command Voice worked, as Rodi had hoped it would. They obeyed. He didn't know what else could be done for them; neither he nor Blue were medics for their own kind beyond basic field triage, and they were absolutely unqualified to look after humans.

Within ten minutes two Air Force jets flew over the area, once at height, then circling back for another, lower pass. Shortly, they were followed by a flight of helicopters, some similar to NEST's Ospreys, others Blackhawks and Pave Hawks.

Once landed, their personnel set a perimeter around the ambush site. One of the choppers was medevac, and personnel from it quickly took charge of the convoy's survivors.

Other airmen began to zip the dead into body bags. For the return to base, the Air Force casualties were kept scrupulously apart from the attackers, using separate helicopters for that journey.

The colonel they had met at Area 51 dismounted from one of the gunships, and said, "Hot Rod, Bluestreak. As you might expect, I have some questions."

He did, and they were extensive. His aide recorded them on a handheld tape recorder. Finally Hot Rod said, "I understand how important this is, believe me, sir, but my orders are to get the energon back to base as quickly as possible. Is there any way Blue and I can do that, then return to talk with you? I really don't know what else I can tell you, but I'm more than willing to try."

The colonel scowled. "Can you carry all that?"

"If we dump everything out of our subspace, I think so. We might have to load some of the cubes in our passenger space. If your men could hide them under a tarp or something?"

"I'll make it so," said the colonel, and was as good as his word.

He and Blue loaded up on the cubes while several airmen were assigned to guard their belongings until a cargo helicopter arrived to take them back to Area 51. As Rodi expected, some of the energon cubes had to be carried in their back seats. A couple of airmen covered them with tarpaulins.

As a precaution they left the unsealed cube behind in the care of the Air Force. Rodi sniffed it with his sensors on maximum, but couldn't tell if anything had been put into it. He didn't think so, but on the other hand there were a lot of chemicals that a Wrecker sensor suite wasn't optimized to detect: anything that didn't explode. Poisons didn't have to explode.

One of those nonexplosive substances might be undetectable if dissolved in sufficient energon—which his sensors certainly did detect. Wheeljack and Ratchet would test it to make sure, but in the meanwhile, Hot Rod didn't want to take a chance that the opened cube would get mixed up with the others. In the flurry of activity on a flight line, someone might drink from it.

They didn't know what had happened to the convoy. They didn't know where the guy on the motorcycle had gone with the energon sample. More importantly, they didn't know how he had avoided being shot by the Air Force Security Forces just like the rest of his gang.

Rodi would never have admitted it, but those facts made the trip home a frightening proposition. He was much happier when two of the Blackhawks were detailed to fly cover for them.

Rodi found himself thinking of the persons in them as fellow warriors, not "squishies" who needed his protection, and did not question that assessment.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Optimus wasn't smiling when his door opened after Hot Rod knocked. Nonetheless, he waved the young Prime candidate and Bluestreak to empty seats across from his desk. Prowl sat to Rodi's left; Ironhide was to Blue's right.

"So, a bit of trouble?" said the Prime, and folded his servos across his belly plates.

"Yes, sir." Rodi reported what he saw, and what he found. Accurately for the first part, and in no way disguising that it added up to "a whole lot of nothing" for the second.

Blue's information was even briefer.

"No identification, and the uniform does not match any force of which we are aware," Optimus mused.

"No. The Air Force humans were pretty dazed when I got there. They may have more to add when they recover, if they do."

"A sobering thought."

"Yes, it is," said Prowl, who heretofore had been silent. "Particularly if one weapon was used to cause both the EMP-like damage and that effect, as well."

"It is appalling as well that humans were asked to give their lives for our energon," the Prime said. "Damage control will have to be done over that. Rodi, you may be asked to speak with the humans' survivors about what you found."

Hot Rod hesitated. "They would want to know that? Isn't it enough that their loved ones were killed? Why do they need to know the details?"

Optimus said, "Assure them, if you can do so truthfully, that their family members did not suffer. Some of them may not believe what happened, and they may need closure. Others may need to be assured that their loved ones' sacrifice is appreciated, and will not be forgotten—after tomorrow, you will be able to tell them why it was so vital to get that shipment through, and that stopping Soundwave's gang makes everyone on Earth safer. The dead are the responsibility of their Creator, but the living are ours. In part, we pay our debt to the dead by caring for those they left behind to the best of our ability."

"Yes, Prime." Rodi swallowed. He still thought of himself as a Wrecker, a bot who tore things down, not a bot who represented his people to a group of aliens. Not a potential Prime. But Optimus thought of him so, and asked him to do the things a Prime might do.

Rodi found that thought unsettling.

Ironhide said, "If you lost a fellow Wrecker, what would you tell their kin? That's what you do. The squishies"—Optimus frowned at his foster-father, but Ironhide only grinned in return—"ain't that much different than us at spark. You tell 'em what you've heard Bulky tell a buncha Wrecker kin, you'll do just fine."

Rodi swallowed. But he'd do it.

"What concerns me immediately," Prowl said after letting a few moments pass, "is that we have no way of knowing whether Soundwave was responsible for the ambush."

"I can't help you there," Rodi said. "If he's invented some new weapon, it was something that truly is new, and that it may affect the humans as well as their machines is pretty disturbing."

"Yes," said Optimus, "and that he may know of our intended attack against him is enough to delay the raid. Prowl, is Jazz available?"

A pause lengthened, and then the cyberninja shook his head. "Not at the moment. The youngling seems to be in recharge."

"When he wakes, see if Jazz can tell us anything about the possibility that this was Soundwave's work." The Prime rose. "Ironhide, you will be responsible for distributing the energon. Rodi, Blue, you might as well return to 51, debrief with the colonel, and pick up your belongings. Please report to me when you return."

"Yes, Prime," said the mech's foster-father. Rodi and Blue followed him out. The door closed slowly behind them as Ironhide said, in his Dad-to-all-the-base tone, "You two fuel up before you go anywhere."

Optimus pinched his nose-plates. Then the Prime stood, and smiled at Prowl. "Come, my friend. We have plans to make."

End Part Seven


	8. Chapter 8

Part Eight

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

_Mission City NEST base_

_Flightline_

_Monday, March 26, 2012, 0100h_

Not a normal night.

On a normal night, by 0100h the base was quiet. Only those with a reason to be awake in the wee hours of the morning found themselves out and about: guards on patrol, both human and Cybertronian, and those on a few round-the-clock postings, filled mostly by medical personnel and other critically urgent trades. But the majority of the base caught up on sack time.

This Monday morning, though...this Monday might be the last Monday of Soundwave's freedom, or the last Monday of the life of anyone involved in the upcoming raid on his hideout. Not a normal night.

Silverbolt in his C-130 form parked on the strip near the hangars; the base's Osprey wing clustered around him, some troop carriers, others adapted to carry Cybertronians, and one outfitted with a combination of human and Cybertronian technology to act as an AWACS. Around them, troops of both species stowed gear and did the million and seven things necessary to prepare for battle. Minor last-minute issues arose, and were resolved with speed. They never became emergencies.

Transformer-spotters might have found the scene very, very confusing, and in fact of little interest. None of the go team wore their normal alts. Heavier bots chose farm tractors, while the lighter ones adopted pickup trucks. Only Ironhide was vaguely recognizable; he had not hidden all of his distinctive chrome work. But he did sport a dark red paint job and heavy splatters over a thick base coat of mud.

Getting Sunstreaker to adopt a farm-based alt (another pickup truck with hay rack; the bot refused to entertain the possibility of a tractor) had been...interesting.

"But...it's not pretty...and it's not fast...and _it's splattered with mud_..."

"That's not mud, Sunny," Ironhide said. "That's cow poop."

Sunstreaker moaned, and put his helm in his hands. Then, because he was a soldier, he scanned the alt and adopted it.

Then, because he was Sunstreaker, he went back into root mode and spent an hour and a half in the washracks.

Ironhide grinned at that memory, though the expression vanished swiftly. 

In front of him, the Sisters assumed their gestalt form: Triad disguised herself with an alt Chromia had scanned for them some time earlier. Three motorcycles might be too noticeable on the backroads of Nebraska farm country, but one small pickup with a hay rack could be counted on to fade right into the scenery.

Emery McKuen of S14 approached Triad. "Uh, hello," he said. His work as S14's nearest thing to a shrink had not prepared him for this; he had spoken to all the Sisters, but never met Triad.

"Greetings, McKuen," said a voice that both was all, and was not any, of the Sisters'.

"Uh. Hello. We just wanted you to know, Mr. Glasco gave us Flatline's history. We'd, uh, we'd be honored if there was anything we could do to help you with that baby-killer."

"Thank you, Emery. Thank all of your clan for us, will you? We appreciate your support, though we think this matter had best be handled by us alone."

"Yes, ma'am, I think we can all understand that. Still, the offer's open."

"Thank you, Emery."

Emery showed a little bit of white all the way around his eyes as he nodded to Ironhide, and left. He'd never dealt with a combined gestalt before.

Ironhide understood that feeling. He had never known quite what to make of Triad since the Sisters adopted the gestalt modification early in the war. His sparkbond with Chromia was still present, strong as ever, but the twins were also in the bond, and so was Triad—an entity who was all three Sisters and none of them, someone independent, who manifested from thin air only when they combined. Intellectually Hide knew this was the process of any gestalt, but he still found it unsettling to be bonded to one of that entity's members.

This time, Triad was most heavily influenced by Chromia; that did not always hold true.

The twins were focused on removing Flatline from the Cybertronian population. He had proved himself to the courts to be too dangerous, too unfettered morally, to be allowed to live. As that was the Sisters' judgment as well, the Cybertronian courts' decision allowed them to take their vengeance for Flareup's rape.

Chromia shared that intention, of course, but not as single-mindedly as Arcee and Flareup. One of the Sisters had to be the common sense of the outfit, and as Chromia was most distanced of the three from Flareup's abuse at Flatline's servos, that responsibility fell to her.

Triad took her optics from McKuen's retreating back; she, not the Sisters, asked Ironhide, "Is this temporary alt good? Do you see anything about it that will raise red flags with the humans?"

Ironhide transformed to slowly walk around the truck and give the gestalt a last inspection. "Looks okay to me. Hey, Fig, you see anything weird about this pickup?"

Figueroa also performed a walk-around inspection of Triad, and shook his head. "Nope. Good to go, ladies."

The small pickup seemed to shake herself, then transformed and broke into her component entities. The twins climbed into an Osprey with Prowl.

Ironhide pulled Chromia close, her small form all but disappearing into his arms. ::Be careful out there. Flatline is a glitch, but he's a sneaky-aft glitch, and Flare and Arcee are slagged off enough at him to fall for one of his tricks. You gotta keep your optics open.::

Chromia sent a glyph of acknowledgment, and then contented herself with staying just for a moment in Ironhide's embrace.

She did not hide from him that that very issue worried her. Of her sisters, Arcee was the more bloodthirsty in combat, to the point where many of the 'Cons harbored a pathological fear of fighting the red cycleformer hand to hand. Close in, with her blades, she terrified all but the largest 'Cons; even those regarded her with trepidation, as she had killed a number of the biggest ones.

Flareup usually allowed her twin to close while she, also an expert marksman, hung back and used her guns. But this time, Flareup was tightly shielded, and when they had formed Triad, she brought to the gestalt a ruthlessly controlled rage: the kind of rage that _must_ be controlled, because if it isn't, it is likely to kill the entity, human or bot, holding it. She would not hang back on this operation.

Chromia was comfortable with either strategy, depending on the conditions of a particular fight. She had developed that versatility deliberately, preferring to keep her options open...and her sisters alive.

She leaned far enough away from Ironhide to make optic contact. ::I'll be watching. Flatline is not going to wound Flareup, or anybot else, ever again.::

::You can always just pull back and give me coordinates, you know. You'll still be in my range. I can make him a little black lump in a circle of char, if that's what you want. I have a round in subspace which will do just that, and I'm real happy to put Flatline's name on it. Now those Pretenders are there for you too. If you need help, get it.::

Chromia was realist enough to keep those options in the queue. ::We will if we need to, Hide. Thank you. But I think it might be best if Flareup took this into her own servos.::

::Understood. All right.:: He stepped back. He _was_ all right with it; he hadn't bonded to any dummy. ::See you on the ground.:: He watched her climb aboard the Osprey, then transformed to roll aboard his own transport.

Jorge Figueroa had turned from speaking with Hide and Triad to his wife and young Raf, there to see him off. "Raf," he said, squatting to be at the boy's height, "you're the man of the house while I'm gone, okay? I'm trusting you with Stefania and the little ones both. Somethin' happens while I'm gone, you find the nearest adult, human or Cybertronian, and you let them know what happened."

"But you'll come back?" Raf said anxiously.

"I'll be back," Fig said, and gave Raf's shoulders a squeeze. _Not like that no-good father of yours._

He and Stefania exchanged no more than a glance and a lingering kiss. They didn't need to.

Yes, Fig thought, as he climbed aboard his transport, he'd be back. Hopefully not in a body bag. If that happened...it wouldn't be good for anyone, but least of all for Raf.

It settled his mind to know that Raf's future was secure, with or without him. Fig found his assigned seat, and fastened his belts.

Down on the flight line, Lennox saw his brother load up, and turned to Sarah and their daughters. Sarah was holding a drowsy Annabelle on her hip, the girl's head on her shoulder. She wouldn't be doing that for much longer; Annabelle was getting too big. Odd, he mused, how your kid's growth sneaks up on you.

Amaranth stood beside Sarah, hands clasped behind her back, a serious look on her face. "Dad, are you going to get the bad guys who broke in last Christmas?"

Lennox nodded. "Yes. We're going to go catch them so they can't do that to anyone else."

"That's good." But a single tear spilled and ran down Amaranth's cheek.

Lennox knelt to wipe it away with his thumb, then gathered this second daughter into his arms. "I want you to do something for me while I'm gone, OK?"

"Yes, Dad?"

"Help your mom take care of your sister." That would keep her busy, which was all he could do for her right now.

"Okay." She stepped out of his embrace, and gave him a smile with tears on the wane.

He put both hands on her shoulders: his little Ranger. "I'll probably be back before bedtime, but it might be Tuesday or even a day or two more. Depends on how complicated it is getting everything wrapped up out there."

God, how he hoped it didn't get "complicated" in the way the Eastgate Church incident had. He hadn't seen his girls for days after that one. Days and days of debriefings.

"Okay," Amaranth said again, and wiped her cheek.

He let her go and stood. Sarah gave him a knowing look over Annabelle's cascade of honey-gold curls. "We'll be fine. You just worry about staying in one piece out there, soldier."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, with that grin of his, surely illegal south of the Mason-Dixon line, under the mop of crazy hair that drew her almost as strongly. He sealed it with a kiss.

Two kids and Will's whole command witnessed that with interest, of course, which kept it from growing steamy. He let Sarah go reluctantly.

She gave him an impish grin. "As soon as you get back, we'll find a better reason than Soundwave to be awake at oh-dark-hundred."

"Good." Heart light, Will Lennox turned to go.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Offutt Air Force Base, near Omaha, was much busier than the usually-quiet Mission City base. Home to the US Strategic Command as well as many other units with global operations, it saw activity around the clock.

NEST had been assigned an entire hangar to offload cargo, transform, and load up for the trip north to their final staging area in Blair.

As soon as Optimus vacated Silverbolt's cargo area, the massive Aerialbot reconfigured it with rows of seats for human, and human-shaped, passengers. NEST and S14, carrying their gear, quickly boarded, but did not strap in yet. The Aerialbots could reach their destination much faster than ground-traveling forces; they would take off when Optimus reached a certain distance from their target, one that would get them all there at the same time at their various speeds.

One by one, a group of farm trucks and tractors left the base, by way of a little-used back entrance. Each waited until a few cars passed to pull out into traffic, careful not to drop back too far and let the preceding bot get out of visual range.

Things could always go pear-shaped with a personnel transfer in progress. You wanted to be close enough to assist if your battle buddy got in trouble, and that was as true for Autobots as for human soldiers.

Bumblebee and Mirage had scouted out a good route to Blair, one that bypassed all the energon detectors and traffic cameras, and ran through land rural enough that no one paid any attention to a passing tractor.

At the proper time, Silverbolt asked his passengers to strap in, and taxied out onto the runway. With his brothers falling easily into formation, he headed north, followed by the AWACs assigned to this mission. Their role was to feed information into the tacnet Prowl would create. That net would close tightly around any 'Cons who tried to escape.

Silverbolt was scared. The leader of the Aerialbots was scared. He couldn't keep it out of the gestalt link.

They had fought Strika's Seekers on more than one memorable occasion, but those Seekers were sane and relatively intelligent, and Strika was known to avoid throwing away the lives of her troops. Her leadership had not resulted in the bloodbaths of Megatron's command. Strika wanted something left to rule over, which Megatron had often seemed to lose sight of in the heat of battle.

The Aerialbots had only heard stories about Lugnut. Big and tough enough to compensate for his slowness, unless you could outrun him. But the Aerialbots' armor couldn't withstand the weapons that he carried, nor could Superion's.

They couldn't let him get a shot off. Unless, please Primus, he already used up his biggest rounds in the battle of Chicago. If he had, they only had the juggernaut to deal with hand-to-hand.

Only. Yeah, only.

And then there was Blitzwing. In his crazy or random phases, they could probably handle him; but when he was in his logical phase, he was a tactician to rival Prowl. Though one of the other personalities elbowed its way to the forefront too often for the logician to be a great threat.

They flew over a plowed field. Then another. And another. Nebraska had a good supply of them, apparently.

Blitzwing: Silverbolt's thoughts returned unhappily to their soon-to-be foe. You never knew what Random Blitzy would do. Drift told Silverbolt that once Blitzwing had filled his subspace with pieces of road plating, and settled on top of a spire in Iacon just outside the green zone that the Autobots had established around the old Senate building, which they had been using for a headquarters there at the end. He had sailed the plates like frisbees at any movement he saw in the green zone. Fortunately, his aim had been lousy, or a lot of bots might have been killed, but all the radio frequencies had been filled with his cackling taunts for a joor, and work had come to a halt while everyone huddled under cover. Optimus had not been there at the time, or his ion blaster would have ended Blitzy's fun in a hurry.

It had taken Ironhide, summoned back from an outlying camp, to shoot him down from there―and even then, the mad triple-changer had survived.

Silverbolt left that unhappy part of Memory Lane to concentrate on his flying. He couldn't let his fear distract him, especially not when they formed Superion.

But...Prime would not go out of his way to start a fight until he was reasonably sure his forces could win it. Soundwave was the last of Megatron's senior officers on Earth; if Prime's forces won this fight, all the Cybertronians on Earth would be a lot safer, and there was a good chance that they could get their energon cubes back. That would mean an end to the rationing all the Autobots hated, but especially the Aerialbots. If human, they would not have been much out of the always-hungry teenage years.

Fly, just for the joy of it, again? Lovely to dream about. All they had to do was get through this one pit-be-damned battle alive and without major damage.

That was all they had to do. Silverbolt turned his full attention back to flying.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Headlights crisscrossed the abandoned parking lot, casting the shadows of tall dry weeds growing up through its cracks over the Autobots.

Ratchet, with First Aid and his brothers, unloaded the crates containing the triage unit which everyone with cargo space had hauled from Offutt. Mirage and Bumblebee joined them from the store's old tire sales area, where they had taken shelter to eliminate any chance of being noticed from the air if Lugnut or Blitzwing decided to stretch his wings.

Prowl hated the small tractor that he was using as a temporary alt, because his sensor wings were hidden under its hood, which rendered them absolutely useless. He moved away from the rest, out of range of their close-held fields, and shuttered his optics, seeking Jazz.

The saboteur returned his ping immediately; their sparkbond the lifeline that it had always been when the Polyhexian was on a mission. Even so, they kept their communication packets small and very, very guarded. No one was certain what Soundwave could do.

::Ten klicks. Situation?::

::Quiet.::

::Be safe.::

::You too.::

Love and devotion made clear in eight words. Prowl smiled briefly, and got to work.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Hidden within Warp, Jazz coiled like a watchspring. He would not reveal himself until the raid started, when Jazz' control of the youngling would get Arthur to safety. His plan was to simply punch through his human partner's bedroom wall, grab him, and deliver him to NEST, one member of which carried his weapons and body armor.

After that Jazz planned to report to Prowl. If he was lucky, he would be able to keep Warp unconscious until after the fight, when he could inform the kid that he was now a guest of the Autobots.

No plan survives first contact with the enemy.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

A little north of Blair, Optimus' forces came to a crossroads. Prowl led the skirmishers north, while Optimus and his front-liners turned east. Prowl set a slow pace, so they would arrive at the same time. He generated the tacnet at the last practical moment, and one by one everyone connected, via either personal comms or NEST comms units. A variety of helmet cams showed the soldiers hooking up to the jump line while two of the flight crew prepared to signal Silverbolt to open his ramp.

Lennox and Glasco walked down the line, performing the final inspection.

Silverbolt crossed the Blair city limits and cut his airspeed slightly, watching the time-on-target indicator on his HUD.

Figueroa made the sign of the cross, kissed his rosary and tucked it into his jump suit. By the time he looked up at his squadmate across the aisle, whose cam had caught the gesture, his eyes were blank steel walls.

Sideswipe requested locations on Blitzwing and Lugnut, which Prowl supplied from telemetry that Jazz swiped from a deeply recharging Warp.

Optimus turned left onto the road leading to Soundwave's air freight company. A few seconds later, Prowl made a right onto the same road. Silverbolt's hatch opened as he reached the jump zone and soldiers started to pour down his ramp, chutes opening like clockwork.

At precisely 0530, Optimus took a sharp turn onto the airstrip, transforming as he rushed Lugnut, who was closest. The first of the human troops landed, and each soldier ran to his planned position.

Thanks to the connection of their comms to the tacnet, Optimus could instantly pinpoint each of them.

The scouts turned into the gravel lot beside the old farmhouse where Soundwave was believed to be staying. The sisters peeled off to the garage where Warp and Flatline recharged.

The first of many things went wrong that morning. Flatline, perhaps by some spidey-sense, perhaps only through bad luck on the Autobots' part, roused, took in the situation, and fled, shooting a hole in the back wall of the garage and rocketing through it.

Jazz took control of Warp just as the mechling was startled out of recharge by noise of Flatline's escape; thing #2 gone south. The spy regretted the necessity, but isolated Warp behind a strong firewall, leaving the panicked youth pounding at it, screaming with a voice no one could hear. There was no time to explain. Jazz could only hope the poor kid would realize his personality files weren't being deleted.

Getting Warp under control delayed Jazz long enough for Flatline to make his escape. With the Sisters in hot pursuit, the Decepticon medic cut through the warehouse parking lot in a spray of gravel.

A fire team from S-14 had been assigned to keep the warehouse workers safely clear of the fighting, and they had neared their objective when Flatline roared through the lot. Most of them managed to dive out of the way, but McKuen got clipped by the 'Con medic's bumper and was knocked flying into the side of the building.

Sunderland rushed to cover him while Cooper, Dawkins and Waring opened fire. Flatline dodged their sabot rounds but kept accelerating, straight through a fence and onto a dirt road between two cornfields.

Finding him was not a problem for the Sisters. The tacnet, using information from AWACS, showed his position in real time.

He fled through flat fields of Nebraska, confined to back roads not designed for sports cars. There was a very slim chance that he could outrun them on a four-lane surface, but none at all on these; he'd chosen his alt more for looks than sturdiness.

::You can't evade us,:: Chromia sent. :: Face your doom, and we will make it end...less painfully than you deserve.::

There was no reply. The frequency went dead.

::If that's the way he wants it,:: Flareup sent, ::let's give him _exactly_ what he wants.::

::Yes,:: Chromia sent. ::Can we trap him?::

Arcee smiled in a way that Sideswipe would have recognized, and grieved for, as he'd seen it too often on Sunstreaker's faceplates. ::Old quarry northeast of here. Once he's there...::

::_Yes_,:: Flareup sent.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Flatline's noisy exit blew both Lugnut and Blitzwing out of recharge. Lugnut saw Prime bearing down on him and got to his peds, dropping his helm and shoulders into a wrestler's crouch, and the two mecha crashed together like a train wreck. The heaviest blows either could deliver fell like rain. They had not faced off since just after the Battle of Chicago, but then both had been nursing severe battle damage. No personal weakness held them back now.

Sides and Sunny skated around the fight, making for Blitzwing, whose random personality took that moment to appear. He grinned at Sunstreaker, then picked up a fifty-gallon drum of grease and threw it at him. The drum burst, splattering its gooey black contents all over the skater.

Sunstreaker roared in fury. Bad enough to give up his preferred and glorious alt for a scruffy pickup truck, and now _this_! He deployed his autocannons and opened fire.

Sideswipe waited until his brother was finished firing before extending his blades. He closed, tried for the triple-changer's hip joint and nicked a wing instead as Blitzwing sidestepped—right into Sunny's fist.

Ironhide hustled to back up Optimus. Lugnut realized just how bad the odds against them had become, and ordered Blitzwing, ::Disengage and retreat!::

The two triple-changers blasted off, none too gracefully, followed by a hail of projectiles and blaster bolts.

They were no more out of range from the ground than the Aerialbots swooped in to attack them.

Blitzwing's rage persona took insult at being assaulted by a gang of little more than youngling hoodlums. Overconfident, Fireflight ventured too close; he took a blow that shattered his windscreen and nearly knocked him out of the sky.

Skydive whipped around in a turn much too tight for the heavy triple-changer to match and fired a double row of projectiles that stitched Blitzwing from nose to tail. His armor was heavy enough to deflect most of it, but each small wound oozed energon. "That hurt, you little slagger! I'm gonna wad you up into a lob for that!"

"Gotta catch me first!"

Skydive's antics provided Fireflight with the time he needed to recover from his wild tumble and get back into formation, but he was badly hurt. He hung back, sniping at the larger flier whenever there was no chance of accidentally hitting Skydive.

Lugnut outdistanced Silverbolt and Slingshot, but had a little more trouble losing Air Raid, who was making a determined effort to land on his back. Lugnut growled, "You pit-be-damned little scraplet, chew on this!"

He fired an explosive round at Air Raid. The Aerialbot dodged, realized that it was a smart round, and hid behind the only cover in sight: Lugnut.

With a roar of fury, the Decepticon shot his own round out of the sky, its detonation shattering windows on all the surrounding farms. ::Blitzwing, get over here! Let's get out before those fraggin' twins get their jet packs working! That's all I need!::

::You go, I'm getting the boss!::

::You're what?!::

::Just go, go, I'll catch up!::

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen looked over the house and asked Prowl, "Is Soundwave in there?"

"Yes, Prime Consort, he is in the center of the ground floor. The three organics are still upstairs."

"I will get him out of the building. We do not need to let him take a hostage."

"I concur."

She left, a small, neat, very lethal figure with a blade in one hand.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Four of them," Glasco said, not so far from Diarwen. "Guy closest to us has a gun under his jacket."

Ruggles nodded. Hand signals began to fly among S14 and NEST.

Five minutes later, the warehouse was under control and the guy with the gun facedown in cuffs.

The warehouse thundered to Blitzwing's return, and in fact the big triple-changer took out the top of its outside wall when he landed next to the farmhouse. But he had other things on his mind.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

If Flatline reached a four-lane highway, he could outrun the Sisters. But Flare stayed behind to herd him, and Arcee and Chromia broke every speed law the State of Nebraska had ever imagined to take up positions to his right and left, one cornfield away. Slowly, the jaws of their trap closed on Flatline.

The Decepticon made a very good attempt to whip past Arcee and take a left where she wanted him to take a right. She got him in her headlight and sent a string of low-impact bullets to score his left side.

He spun his wheel to the right and nearly lost traction, his rear wheels fishtailing, headlights flashing over the greening fields.

Arcee dropped back slowly, as if he were outrunning her, which he was not.

He could still get to freedom, she realized. Then Chromia loomed out of the darkness, and sent one shot to score his right side. He fishtailed again, and all three Sisters heard a strut give.

Limping, Flatline made the correct turn: onto the road of karma for his past.

End Part 8


	9. Chapter 9

Part Nine

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen entered the house with great caution and great silence. It wasn't total, no organic could achieve that, but only her heartbeat and the sounds of her respiration went with the Sidhe.

But then Flatline pulled off his exit, and all the lights in the lower story turned on at once.

A handsome man in late middle age rose from a heavily-reinforced cot, turned his head to Diarwen, and said, "You are about to die, organic."

Diarwen's blade whispered from its sheath. "The first to say that to me died before you came online. It would be wise for you to surrender now."

An impact from upstairs shook the entire house. A cloud of plaster dust sifted down from the ceiling. Diarwen took advantage of the distraction to vault the cot.

The tip of her blade traced a shallow slice down the outside of Soundwave's arm, but the Cybertronian dodged beyond serious damage: he had faster reflexes than she.

A thin cable with a sharp blade at the end shot out of his palm. It nicked her wrist, though it did not cut sinew or tendon, which might have compromised her grip on her weapon.

She came in under the whipping cable to thrust at Soundwave's optics.

He pivoted, then stepped back, and jumped backwards through a window, getting room to move—it would be suicide to stay in close quarters with a blademaster of Diarwen's skills.

Diarwen pressed her attack, careful to let her armor deal with the shards of broken glass scything out from the window frame as she dived through and rolled to her feet, just in time to twist out of the way of a line of thin flechettes fired from a weapon that transformed out of Soundwave's uninjured arm.

She closed to sword range again, and he transformed his arms to a pair of wide cleaver-like blades, suitable for attack or defense. Diarwen shifted to thrusts rather than cuts, getting the feel for her enemy's blocks while she danced beyond the reach of his attacks.

At the front of the building's second floor, Jazz had wakened Arturo through the simple expedient of tearing his bedroom window from its frame. Melendez jerked awake and leapt into a crouch in the corner of his bedroom, thinking that he faced Warp. Jazz said, "Hey, no, Arturo, it's me, Jazz!" about the same time that full awareness returned to the Master Sergeant's eyes. Melendez scooped the change of underwear he had had to beg for off the chair it was drying on and said, "Let's go!"

Jazz deposited his partner near the soldier that Prowl told him had Arturo's gear; he and Arturo nodded to one another, and each began the next part of his battle. Melendez got dressed; Jazz sent, ::Prowl, where is the Prime Consort?::

::Other side of the building, fighting Soundwave!::

Jazz turned that way to back her up, and that was when Blitzwing landed right in the gravel lot, a whole _Pit_ of a lot more crowded when the big 'Con inserted himself into the middle of it, taking part of the warehouse wall down on his way in.

One of Prowl's acid pellets struck him in the elbow joint, one of the few places it could affect his ability to fight. Other than at the joints, his armor was too heavy. Blitzwing slapped at his injury, which got acid on his digits. He roared, optics blazing with fury, but instead of going looking for Prowl he attacked―as far as he knew―his own teammate Warp: backhanded him into the side of the farmhouse. Weakened from Jazz' rescue of Arturo, the front wall crashed down on top of the youngling.

Prowl desperately searched the bond. Jazz was still with him, but trapped in deep unconsciousness with Warp.

Everyone in the lot opened fire on the 'Con to distract him from Warp and Jazz.

While those reports thundered under the lightening Nebraska sky, Silverbolt sent to Optimus, ::They got away from us, Prime. Lugnut is on an escape vector, but Blitzwing is headed back your way!::

::I see him! Lugnut will be too fast for you when he gets far enough out of atmosphere to use his interstellar drive. Back us up!::

::Yes, Prime!:: The Aerialbots picked up speed, except for the injured Fireflight, who sent, ::Go! I won't be far behind!:: to his brothers. But Skydive kept pace with him anyway, Silverbolt's warm approval following them both as the other Aerialbots arrowed back to Soundwave's last stand...if they could make it that.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Optimus covered the distance from the airstrip to the gravel lot in a flat-out run. A steady stream of reports from Prowl's and Mirage's guns, as well as NEST and S14's sabot rounds, echoed across the surrounding fields. On some level he was aware of an SUV full of humans escaping from the farm down the road, but since the battle had almost no chance of affecting them, he paid little attention, beyond a wash of relief that they had taken themselves out of harm's way.

He got there in time to see Blitzwing get hold of Sideswipe by one wrist, yank the skater to him, grab the ankle on the same side, and slam him into his twin. Both fell into an unconscious heap.

Ironhide was firing with a lot more effect than the smaller weapons of the scouts and soldiers, but he was limited by his concern for where a missed shot might go.

Optimus approached Blitzwing from the side. He tapped the bulkier bot on the shoulder, and when Blitzwing turned, punched him in the face. The blow staggered him, but the 'Con caught himself, and Optimus pulled his sword and shield out of subspace barely in time to block a gout of flame. He shouted to the humans and smaller bots, "Back up! Make room!"

Lennox ordered, "You heard the mech, retreat to the tree line!"

Glasco sent a ping to his own troops, giving the same order.

Optimus paid no more attention to the strategic retreat as the soldiers fell back in turns, half of each fire team moving while the other half kept firing. It took them very little time to get clear.

His sword clashed against Blitzwing's armor, but even the energon sword did not cut all the way through. The triple-changer's fist slammed into the Prime's shield. He left a large dent, and Optimus saw a series of cracks spiderweb that panel. The damaged section would not stop another solid blow; the entire shield might shatter with the next one.

Optimus began to wonder if it was going to be possible to take the madmech alive, especially with Jazz out of commission.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The Sisters trailed their quarry through a dark, starry Nebraska night, beginning to lighten in the east. Google Maps showed two driveways between themselves and Flatline's final destination; both led only to single houses. Still, the Sisters stayed too close on Flatline's tail for him to turn; they had no wish to risk any collateral damage, and knew Flatline would not let that consideration influence him.

The flash of his headlights as he entered the quarry showed a car, parked on the rim of the quarry itself. Teenagers, necking, Chromia realized. ::I'll send them away,:: she sent. ::Go get him.::

She rolled to a stop, transformed, and tapped politely on the passenger-side window. Two shocked faces beyond it turned to her, the girl began to scream, and the male of the couple started the car, whipped it into a J-turn, and catapulted away. _Good_.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen heard the battle between Optimus and one of the triple-changers, but could not afford the lapse in concentration that would allow her to find out what was going on. Soundwave was a much tougher opponent than she expected, particularly since all the tales she'd heard of him emphasized his mind-raping abilities. While she had defenses against that even in the absence of her magic, none of the Cybertronians thought to tell her of his excellence with a blade.

None of them thought to tell her that he could weave a web around his potential victim, either, and the injuries she sustained in Chicago kept her from recognizing it as he wove it.

Diarwen tucked her legs up under herself and leapt one of the cleaver-like blades, parrying the other with her sword, and had to tack a backflip onto the end of that maneuver when the small blade on a thin line arced toward her face.

She could fight two blades with ease, but three was far more difficult. Diarwen needed help, and she called for it the only way she knew how: _Great Mother, help me!_

-Sidhe Chronicles-

In Washington, DC, Sam Witwicky jerked awake. It was six thirty-eight on a Monday morning, which he had off, so why had he wakened?

Then Diarwen's face made its way into his consciousness. She needed help, and no one knew that but him.

Sam Witwicky hastily lit nag champa incense, and sat down in front of the picture of the Matrix he had commissioned from Sunstreaker. He rose again to get the printout Diarwen had given him at their last meeting; it might hold some of her energy still.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Jazz was shaken violently to consciousness and found himself floating next to a still-out-of-it Warp. Cut off from the heightened physical senses that a frame allowed, Jazz was all the more acutely aware of the wildly roiling, clashing auras around him.

Prime and Blitzwing were a mass of aggressive red, quarter neither asked nor given as they battered each other. Only Prime's innermost layer of lavender, blue, and gold identified him; Blitzy's core was a schizophrenic fingerpainting that used every color there was, united by no discernible theme at all.

The Decepticon spymaster and the Prime Consort, though...had Jazz been in his frame at that moment, his armor would have bristled like a porcupine when he realized what was going on. Soundwave's field was weaving a subtle net around the Prime Consort, a net that when drawn tight would cut her off from awareness of the world around her and drag her into a psychic universe of Soundwave's devising.

Until his death and return as a ghost, Jazz would have believed implicitly that such an attack could only work on another Cybertronian, or on humans who were using technology similar enough to theirs to appear Cybertronian on the net, like Soundwave's victims at Beaverton last year.

Once set free of physical constraints, Jazz had finally understood: sparks and souls were more similar than different. Psychic energy was psychic energy.

Soundwave had apparently learned that lesson too; as well, Diarwen's psychic injury at the Battle of Chicago had left her at a deep disadvantage, he realized. She couldn't see what he was doing.

Jazz kicked clear of Warp's frame like a swimmer freeing himself from a snag, and drifted through the corner of the house to get closer to the swordmasters' duel.

Just as the net pulled tight around Diarwen and Soundwave prepared to end the battle, Jazz formed a javelin of psychic energy and let fly. Soundwave's shields held, barely; Prowl's own javelin followed, and the shield shattered.

Enraged, Soundwave recognized his arch-enemy of thousands of years. "Jazz. I hope you kissed your mech goodbye."

Jazz dodged a fireball, which came roaring at him like dragon's breath but splattered into a circle of flame against the house and vanished without a sign that it had ever existed. Before Soundwave could aim another, the saboteur ducked out of the room.

Soundwave brought his frame along, which slowed him down as Jazz escaped through the walls and ceilings into the upstairs. But Jazz had a plan.

Behind them, Diarwen went to her knees.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Sam Witwicky let both his thoughts and the image of the Matrix drift out of focus before him. The paper Diarwen had given him lay between him and the image; he reached out and touched it.

_Danger red and black and silver a man about his father's age who_ —Soundwave!—_pain and a weakness so profound she did not see the trap encircling her—_

Sam did not hesitate. He erected his own best shields, he recalled that Diarwen had once told him that she used either blue or green for healing energies, he checked with his own psyche (and those remnants of All-Spark energy left within his aura) to see which one would work best, and then he hit Diarwen with a dump truck's worth of blue energy.

Then, for insurance's sake, he emptied a green truck over her too.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Jazz wasn't quite fast enough to execute his well-thought-out scheme: didn't get out through the hole in the wall in Arturo's room, failed to lure Soundwave into the parking lot.

One of Soundwave's tentacles, as ephemeral as Jazz himself, wrapped around his leg, and began to drag him ever closer to the Decepticon. Jazz fastened his own optics onto the glowing coals of Soundwave's, looming over him and descending slowly, slowly, the Decepticon's enjoyment ever more intense...almost sexual.

Eww.

Jazz had the pleasure of seeing Soundwave's optics narrow, but then the Decepticon resumed his slow torture.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen was on all fours when Sam's first delivery of energy hit her with all the impact of its thousand-mile journey. She somehow kept herself from falling flat on her face, identified its source, and allowed it in.

Not that, in her injured state, she could have kept it out. But by allowing it, she got greater benefit.

Blue...she was drowning in blue. It swathed her, filled her; she breathed it in and digested it; it sent itself from muscle to muscle, neuron to neuron, bone to bone. It penetrated the wounds left by channeling more energy than her body could bear in Chicago.

And then it began to knit them together, not gently. She kept herself from screaming, somehow.

Then the green energy arrived. Diarwen felt herself taken up by Brigit, examined by critical, but not unloving, eyes, and placed on the anvil of healing.

Then Brigit's hammer fell, just once, and inside her own head, Diarwen screamed, just once.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Jazz commended himself to Primus, and awaited the experience of death at Soundwave's servos: Soundwave, he could feel, took as much pleasure from Prowl's distress at his bondmate's situation as from Jazz' own.

Still, Soundwave was not happy. ::You will fear me, Jazz.::

::No Ah won't. Ah fear one Being only, an' that's Primus. You ain't in His league.::

Soundwave did not discuss his displeasure further. Instead, a red emanation stretched between them. It fastened onto Jazz' ephemeral peds, and began to rise, crawling up his struts with slow cruel relish; Jazz opened the link to Prowl as far as it would go, and began to say his goodbyes.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The noise of Flatline's escape and the subsequent thunder of the battle had yanked Smith and Wilburn out of a sound sleep. They met in the hallway outside their bedrooms.

"What's going on?" Smith shouted.

"Dunno! This way!" said Wilburn, pivoting into a flat-out run.

They raced through the kitchen and into the farmhouse's basement, beyond it to the storm shelter. This heavily reinforced structure was intended as a safe room in case of a tornado, and had a second exit in back of the house in case debris blocked the basement.

The two men opened the trap door with small, careful gestures. The noises they made in doing so were inaudible under the ruckus of Blitzwing's arrival. They ran for the tree line.

Bad decision. The tree line, after Optimus' thunderous shout, became infested with a bunch of guys who looked human but were no such thing. Smith and Wilburn tried to hide from S14; they took refuge under an arch of blackberry tangles, which left them invisible.

Or so they thought. DeWayne Sturman moved the brambles aside with one massive arm and smiled down at them, Ruggles' rifle paired with his own in pointing straight at the traitors' hearts.

Glasco stood with his hands on his hips, and his men trained three more rifles on the pair. "Look what we have here! Augie, get out the zip ties. Let's tag 'em and bag 'em."

Fortunately for the two miscreants, he meant that figuratively and not literally. Being unacquainted with Glasco's sense of humor, neither Smith nor Wilburn tried to push their luck.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Optimus could feel that Diarwen's battle with Soundwave had put her into danger. But he, in danger from Blitzwing as were the Aerialbots and Ironhide, could not break off the fight with Blitzwing to aid her...and the crazed mech was winning. Optimus struck Blitzwing in the jaw struts, which forced him to remove his teeth from Optimus' arm.

Some tiny part of Optimus' processor remained aware of his Consort's issues.

Then Sam's energy arrived, and while Optimus could tell that the younger Prime needed a bit of moderation in his energy-delivery techniques, he'd learn that in time. Right now Optimus could re-enter the battle with Blitzwing, spark, frame, and processor.

He sent a ping to Silverbolt, and he and Defensor tackled Blitzwing, one from each side, just as Ratchet arrived at the airfield.

Blitzwing hit the pavement with a thunderous crash. Down but not out, he continued to thrash, heave, and hit. He crumpled Optimus' left pauldron, and the middle third of Defensor's right ulnar strut.

Then Ratchet leapt to the middle of his chest, immobilizing the madmech's upper arm struts with his knees, and stuck a 35-gallon hypodermic under a plate. He pushed the plunger.

Blitzwing continued to thrash and fight, more and more weakly as the drug took hold. All four of the Autobots were panting for breath, exhausted, before the enormous triple-changer slid into unconsciousness.

Optimus got slowly to his peds, but Ratchet shoved him back down, which was a lot too easy by the medic's lights. ::You stay right here until I have a chance to take a look at the Twins and the little warper,:: the medic snapped. He spun on one ped. ::And that includes you as well!:: he sent to the Aerialbots and Ironhide.

::My consort,:: Optimus replied, and left; he would deal with any flying wrenches later.

The others of Ratchet's prisoners took a reading of the medic's fields and stayed put. Ironhide moved enough to put Blitzwing into the heaviest, strongest stasis cuffs, but when Ratchet turned to look at him from Warp's side, he hastily finished what he was doing and sank back onto the tarmac.

Blitzwing presented only the clear and present danger of a mech almost as strong as the Prime who was also thoroughly insane: Ratchet occupied the class above that.

Glasco commed Optimus with the news that Wilburn and Smith were in custody, and the leader of the Autobots began to send messages to Idaho and Oregon, while seeking his Consort.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Jazz could not struggle any longer. The red emanation had risen up what he thought of as his "body" until his arm struts were pinned to his sides. Soundwave relished his victim's panic and pain, although Jazz knew he wasn't anywhere near giving Soundwave the levels of fear and stress he craved.

Soundwave upped the red pressure from "confining" to "painful."

Frag that, Jazz thought. Frag Soundwave. He dismissed the Decepticon from his concerns, which further enraged the spymaster, bade Prowl farewell, and prepared himself to meet Primus.

Jazz' awareness was dimming when Diarwen's energy did not so much enter the room as burst through the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. Soundwave, far from watching a helpless victim succumb to him, was suddenly awash in a blue-green energy he could not counter, flung into a fight he had failed to anticipate.

The red energy did not recede: it vanished. Jazz, who had not given up any part of himself to the Decepticon, struck at Soundwave with the same fierce sharpness as did Diarwen's blade.

For perhaps the first time since his mods came online, Soundwave fought for his life. He struggled to access his power, fought toward the use of the greater part of it. But Diarwen confounded his attempts as easily as if she were skating. Her blade touched his plating, and a sizzle of green swept over Soundwave, numbing him to the world beyond him.

It failed to stop or discourage him. The battle went on, spread among three blades and three minds.

Then Jazz sent to her, ::Prime Consort, wait a minute! Give the glitch a bit o' breathin' room! Optimus wants to comm him!::

Neither of them knew before trying it that they could do that.

Diarwen switched from full-out assault to confinement. Wherever Soundwave sought freedom, he found Diarwen's energy, or her blade, between himself and his objective. He could not outfight her.

Thanks to Jazz, he could not access the wiring in the old house, an escape route he thought invulnerable to attack.

Soundwave began to worry that he would not survive. He redoubled his efforts, to no avail at all.

Optimus, who despite the Death Glare from his CMO had arrived at the ruined farmhouse, shouted, "Soundwave! Smith and Wilburn are in custody. If you surrender, I shall take that gesture as loyalty to them on your part. I will argue for the removal of the death penalty in their cases. I cannot guarantee it, but I will press hard for it. So will my government liaisons, who are not without power in these matters."

Soundwave sneered; Diarwen engaged his blades, and she and Jazz confined his energy between them. Still, the spy said, "And what of myself in this generous offer? How will I die? On your blade, or this creature's?"

"If you die on my Consort's blade, that will be by your own choice. My Consort certainly will not hesitate to accept it." Optimus watched Soundwave's helm go back in shock with a certain amount of satisfaction. "Unless you force my servo, you will not die by it. I may have to place you in stasis for a generation or three of humans, and give my own people time to disengage from their memories of you. But you will be in stasis no longer than four vorn."

He made optic contact briefly with Diarwen, who received from it the message "I adore you, and _don't let down your guard_."

Optimus continued, "But I will argue that we need time to see if you can be rehabilitated, and stasis will guarantee that you present no more danger to the humans. They will thus be less interested in seeing you executed."

Soundwave disengaged one of his blades, then the other, from Diarwen's. Optimus was still aware of Diarwen's and Jazz' energies corralling those of the spy; Soundwave was not giving up on his chances of energetic escape.

Fine; he wasn't a stupid mech. Optimus cautiously joined his own energies to those of the other two, but immediately disengaged: he was not in the league to play with these three, and would be a liability. He sent instead for Ratchet.

Who sent back, ::You have the Pit of a nerve. Be right there.::

Optimus could feel Soundwave's puzzlement as he disengaged lightly from both Jazz and Diarwen, who nonetheless kept their own guards up, though only to maintain Soundwave's confinement. They did not attack, nor did the Decepticon.

Soundwave was finding out that tomorrow did not have to be like yesterday, Optimus thought with satisfaction.

Soundwave himself thought that he was as free now as he had ever been, free of Megatron's insanity, and what had he done with that freedom? Continued Megatron's war.

And Optimus Prime was nothing at all like Megatron. That fact had been known to Soundwave before Megatron's death, but he had never acted upon it.

Soundwave, by the time Ratchet showed up, was thoroughly ashamed of himself.

His pacification went smoothly: Ratchet requested that he resorb

his blades, and once that was done, shut him down. The medic wouldn't remove the T-cog until they were back at base.

Diarwen went immediately to Optimus.

"Jazz? You here?" said the medic, tossing the Decepticon over one shoulder.

::Ah am. How's Warp?::

"Got his bell rung, but I think he'll be good once he reboots. I'm going to keep him out for his own good until I can get him back to Mission City and do some tests to make sure. Want a lift?"

::No, Ah'm goin' to Prowl.::

"All right. You," said Ratchet, as he pointed to Optimus, "get back to the airstrip. Sit beside Fireflight and Silverbolt, and _don't move until I have examined you_."

Optimus, Diarwen perched on one shoulder quite differently than the way Soundwave rode Ratchet's, went. Ratchet was mightily displeased to find that she had put quite a lot of healing energy into Optimus' systems by the time he got there, but Ratchet too had grown during the war. He shrugged, thanked her, and got on with the physical parts of the remaining repairs.

A groggy Sunstreaker dragged himself to his peds.

"Where do you think you're going?" the medic demanded, half-turning away from his present victim.

"Find what I came after, my fraggin' energon cubes."

"You can wait till I get around to you."

"Like the Pit. If I'm that far down the triage list, I can spend the time looking for my stuff. And if you fling a wrench at me, I'm flingin' it back."

"Suit yourself!" Ratchet growled. "Make more work for me and you'll regret it."

Prowl said, "The cubes are in the garage, Sunstreaker. They look fine."

Ratchet said, "Don't drink any energon till I have a chance to make sure you won't blow a line! That goes for all of you!"

For pride's sake, Sunstreaker checked on his energon cubes, and located them all. The system of fiber-optic cables that piped sunlight into the building for the cubes to produce energon while remaining hidden was really ingenious, and he saved several images of it. They could use the same technique to keep the cubes safely stored within the Cliff House back home, which would make any subsequent energon raids much more challenging. He transmitted that idea to Prowl.

Then he saved his own life by returning whence he had come, and sitting down to wait for Ratchet to get around to him.

End Part Nine


	10. Chapter 10

Part Ten

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Chromia descended the road into the old quarry. She found Flatline in his root mode with his back to one stone wall, her sisters five yards in front of him, their guns drawn.

Flareup's fields acknowledged Chromia, and the twin said tightly, "Flatline, you have five klicks to make whatever peace you can with Primus."

Flatline spread his major servos. "Gentlefemmes, gentlefemmes, surely we can come to some accommodation here."

"No, we can't. It wouldn't save your life if we could; all we're doing here is saving Optimus Prime some time and aggravation, and maybe a little heartbreak. He doesn't like judicial executions, but _we_ don't like _you_. Four point seven two klicks. Think hard about your last words. We'll carry them back for you."

Flatline's vocalizer clicked. "You can't expect me to make this easy for you," he said.

Flareup shrugged, her optics twin ice crystals. "We're prepared to be more merciful than you were. But that's the only choice you have left, Flatline. Go easy, or go hard. Four point two three klicks."

He didn't tell them of his decision; he simply attacked. But there were three Sisters and one of them held a very long-standing grudge against this particular Decepticon: Flareup's first strike was at the knee not damaged by Flatline's flight down rough roads. That put more stress on the injured one, and in far less than his remaining four-and-change klicks, Flatline was fighting from his knee joints.

Even so, he remained dangerous. Those four vestigial arms all held or even transformed into surgical implements, which made fine bladed weapons.

And Primus alone knew what they might be coated or filled with; this was _Flatline_, after all.

The Sisters solved that problem with a little teamwork. Chromia came in swiftly from Flatline's right, grasped and broke one vestigial arm above its first joint, barely avoiding the other, then carried the fight to his upper body. Flareup and Arcee each grasped a left-side lower wrist, and twisted sharply. A crackling noise issued from those small struts, and the servos came off in the Sisters' own.

Panting, streaked with his own energon, Flatline faced the Sisters from his knees. "All right...you win," he said.

Not one of them took the bait. Flatline's mouth twisted. The last vestigial arm, left undamaged, transformed into a hypodermic, which Flatline stuck into his own plating.

"No!" Flareup screamed, and dived for him. But the stuff was too fast-acting even for her. Flatline tried for a smirk of triumph but got no farther than a grimace before falling flat on his faceplates.

Flareup flipped him onto his back and tore open his chest plates.

Arcee put up a preemptive servo when Chromia moved toward Flare. ::What are you doing?:: she sent to her twin, across the gestalt bond. ::Flare, love, what are you doing?::

::I swore I would see his spark gutter, and I _will_!::

Chromia removed herself to quietly seek out and subspace bits of battle-damaged armor and those damned vestigial servos. Arcee knelt opposite her sister, and, when Flareup's servos shook too badly to accomplish the task, flipped chestplate latches.

Finally, Flatline's spark casing lay open to the sky. Flareup extruded a point-welder from one finger, and ran a lance of energon across the casing. Then she inserted her digits into the still-smoking crack, and pulled it apart.

A small greenish light threw itself onto the wall behind them, lighting the entire quarry, and reached for the stars. Chromia knelt beside Flareup, and put one arm around her shoulders, reaching across Flatline's frame to hold Arcee's servo with the other.

That light dimmed, and dimmed again...lost its hold on the stars...threw itself briefly onto the cliff again, receded to human-head height...gave only a small circle of illumination picking out the Sisters' faceplates...diminished to show Flatline's open chestplates...only his ruined spark casing...

...and then guttered into darkness.

All of Flareup's cables lost their tension, and she sagged against Chromia, weeping.

Arcee took her servo back, and cut the spark casing free. This she laid beside Flareup, and then she dragged Flatline away.

Chromia knew from the sounds she could hear over Flareup's sobs that Arcee was cutting their old enemy into pieces small enough to subspace. Ratchet had given them instructions to preserve Flatline's healing mods, which would be distributed among the apprentice healers once they had been cleansed of every trace of Flatline.

But Chromia said and did nothing beyond enfolding Flareup in her arms and her field...she felt Arcee's presence, and that of their gestalt personality as well. Ironhide was a comforting ghost in the back of her processor.

When Flareup's sobs quieted, she wiped her cheeks, and blinked her optics. Then she gave Chromia a hug, but leaned out of her embrace to pick up the spark casing. She held it in her servo, then gave it to Chromia, who subspaced it.

Flareup smiled, a real smile for the first time in vorn, at her sisters, and stood. "Let's go. We did what we needed to do."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Once Ratchet had taken care of immediate repairs, the bots took their unconscious prisoners back to the parking lot in Blair, which was to be home away from home until they could arrange transport of the 'Cons back to Mission City.

They could fly Soundwave and Warp back, but Blitzwing was too big for that easy solution. Optimus thought he could haul him on a flatbed, but it would be much better to transport him by rail as close as possible to the base. He had a conversation about that with Charlotte Mearing, who assured him that the government had draped in canvas and transported worse things than Blitzwing.

Lennox remained at the freight company, supervising. The company's employees had no idea what was going on, and were shocked to discover that their employer as well as the company cargo planes were Decepticons—and that their jobs had just disappeared.

Once he confirmed that, beyond being paid by him, they were not involved in Soundwave's activities, Lennox released them to the county sheriff. The computer equipment Soundwave had used was loaded onto an Osprey, to be taken back to Mission City for study.

Other than that, Lennox thought, with a pleased smile, all he had to do was secure the place until Homeland Security arrived to go over it with a fine-toothed comb. As he had promised Amaranth, he would be home with his family tonight.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"_Will_ you two knock it off!" Ironhide bellowed, and Sunstreaker and Sideswipe hastily broke off their impromptu low-speed sparring match. "We got cubes to pack up! Get with the program!" the weapons specialist huffed, though in reality, he was not much upset. He imagined he would be doing the same for the Aerialbots shortly, as even though Fireflight was still under Ratchet's servos, the rest of them appeared to be about to burst into antics as well.

Well. That really was the best possible ending to the day for frontliners, Ironhide thought, and turned his back deliberately on some play he would have to yell at when he turned back.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen wrapped her sword belt around her scabbard and laid it on the floorboards of Optimus' cab before she climbed wearily inside. Optimus had learned enough of Celtic and Sidhe customs to know that it was an honor to carry another warrior's sword, but here and now he was more concerned with the warrior herself.

The hand around his grab bar was shaking. He wrapped a seatbelt around her and assisted her into his cab. "Diarwen, are you well?"

"I—I—Optimus, my magic has been completely restored. Sam has done the impossible, with my Lady's assistance, of course. I believe that I am fully healed."

"I thought as much, but I hardly dared hope. Sam's control over energy is still very shaky. For a moment I feared that he had done more harm than good."

Diarwen leaned her head back. "No, he saved my life, and Jazz' life as well." Now that the adrenaline rush had settled, Optimus could feel that his Consort was bone weary and a little nauseated.

Soundwave had overwhelmed her own and Jazz' greater skill with sheer power, the ninja told Optimus. So his beloved had been healed in the nick, the very tiniest possible nick, of time; a near thing indeed.

Jazz had shared with Optimus that he, Jazz, had prepared himself to meet Primus, and Optimus thought it very likely that Diarwen had done the same.

We will all die someday, and intellectually we know that. But having the certain knowledge that Death is come for you, now, clarifies a great many things in a very short time. No one who sets a foot into the Far Country and is then snatched back from that border is ever truly the same.

Likewise, Blitzwing had taken on all comers for a long time, as melee combat went. They were fortunate to have taken the madmech without more damage to themselves.

Any of them could have died today, but the only casualty had been Flatline, and his deactivation was not so much "casualty" as "long-delayed, and long-overdue, justice." Everyone else would be going home. The best of all possible outcomes.

There was hope for Blitzwing, and even, in time, for Soundwave. Optimus was content with his decision to keep that one out of sight and out of mind where the humans were concerned.

And Bumblebee and Wheeljack were unlikely to forget that Soundwave would have executed them in Chicago had not Wheelie and Brains broken up the party at the last minute. Putting Soundwave into stasis for a few centuries until tempers had a chance to cool would undoubtedly be best.

He tightened his seatbelt briefly around his Consort, then released it: an alt-form hug. When Ratchet saw her, he demanded that she submit to his ministrations, and she _did not protest_.

Optimus might have worried about that could he not see her fields: green and glowing, and stronger than they had been since the Battle of Chicago.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Triad arrived at the abandoned parking lot that served as the advance staging area, and broke apart into the Sisters. Just before they reported to Ratchet, Chromia said to Flareup, "That thing you gave me...you don't want it?"

Flareup locked her optics onto Chromia's, and said, "No, I don't. I gave that sack of slag enough energy over the vorn. I have my life back. I don't need a trophy; that would be making him more important than he was."

Chromia took Flareup's servo into hers, and offered the other to Arcee, who took it as well.

Whole and at peace, the Sisters walked into the roped-off area that Ratchet had set aside for himself, and gave to him all that was left of Flatline.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Fraggin' Autobots! Fraggin' humans! And now that _fraggin' glitch_ Blitzwing had managed to get himself captured!

Lugnut wasn't sure about leaving his own and Strika's trinemate an Autobot prisoner. But joining him wouldn't do any good. No, the best thing would be to do what Strika said and get home. She would know what to do. She always did. Meanwhile, it served Blitzy right to get locked up.

Alone in a darkening sky, the sunlight behind him, Lugnut put distance and altitude between himself and the ruin of Soundwave's plans. The little blue marble of Earth fell away below him.

His plan was simple. The planet's moon for a while, long enough to generate sufficient energon to fill his tanks. Then New Darkmount, and Strika.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Shad White heard shouts and oohras from admin, which was not too far down the commons from the teenagers' den. He paused the video he was watching for his history class. Raf scattered pencils as he jumped up from his table as well. _"Que pasa?" _The smaller boy asked, in one of the rare demonstrations that he thought in Spanish.

"I don't know. Let's go find out."

They saw Barricade hanging around near the back door, waiting for news of the battle, and especially of Flareup. "Barricade, what's going on?"

"Soundwave's crew got their afts kicked," the former 'Con replied. "No casualties but Flatline. They're wrapping things up." He'd learned enough of humans now to know that the boys' sudden relaxation meant that they were relieved.

Shad said, "Our people are all alive? Was anyone injured?"

"Beat up, nothing unexpected though. Somebot's bumper clipped one of the Pretenders and flung him into a wall, but it sounds like he's going to be OK."

The two boys thanked him, and went back to their work. Shad finished his video, and by then it was time for the kids who went to public school to get on the truck. Shad saw them off, then wrote his essay about the video; that took him until lunch. He got a sandwich from the mess, then came back to his computer to eat and look at the news sites.

His dog, Shankie, raised his head and made hopeful puppy-dog eyes at the sandwich until Shad gave him a bite. Shad opened his orange juice and opened the KMOV TV website to see what was going on in St. Louis. There were the usual crime reports and local news common to any large city, but near the bottom of the page he found an interview with someone he recognized, Mordecai Phillips, a young man who had left the Eastgate Church compound several years before.

Leah Nielson had previously told him that she had run into Mordecai at the Salvation Army, and that he was homeless.

The interviewer, a young blonde reporter, introduced the segment as a followup to the Eastgate Church incident, then said, "With us today we have Mordecai Phillips, a former member of the church. Mordecai, you left the church a few years ago. What can you tell us about it?"

"It was pretty, uh, rural. We all had homeschooling, but most of what we learned was how to farm. Then when we hit puberty, we were expected to marry pretty quickly. Reverend Dowling wanted me to marry this girl I didn't like, and I'd been fighting with my parents a lot, so I left. I ended up in foster care here in St. Louis after the cops picked me up and my parents put me up for adoption. My foster family was cool, but that ends when you turn 18. I'm looking for work, I want to get off the street, but there's a lot of other folks out there looking too."

The reporter was pretty and vapid. "So a lot of you left the compound over the years?"

Mordecai shrugged. "Two, three, four a year, I guess."

"Why did they leave?"

"A lot of reasons. Some didn't want to be parents that young, some didn't want to marry the person picked out for them, some started to disagree with that crazy old coot. The ones who realized they were gay had to leave to survive. Me, I just got fed up with those hypocrites and skedaddled. I was lucky to get out when I did, because it wasn't too long before they started shooting people."

The reporter asked, "Where are you living now?"

"Tent on the riverbank."

"You're living in a homeless camp?"

Mordecai looked uncomfortable; the reporter's job of hiding her contempt for the homeless was less good than she thought it was. She was also surprised, because Mordecai was not unkempt, and not dirty. "Hey, I have a tent to live in. And sometimes there's work, you know, mowing yards and washing cars and stuff."

"Is it a hard life, Mordecai?"

"Yeah, in some ways. But I'd still rather live in my tent than back in that squirrel cage. So would all the other people I know who got out of there. I want to know why the law didn't do anything about it a long time before now."

The reporter was photogenic, did not get paid to think, and did get paid to keep people on track. "You mentioned knowing other people in the same situation?"

"Yeah, I keep in touch with several of them. A lot of them live in the same camp as me," Mordecai said. "They're not all living on the streets, though. Some people found jobs, or they're in relationships or whatever. One girl works as a maid to an old couple. One guy was real smart in school and he got a college scholarship."

"What are your plans?"

"Keep lookin' for a job. I mean, if you don't do that, what else are you going to do? I'd like to get a little piece of ground of my own where I could farm. You'd be surprised what you can grow for yourself."

"Thank you, Mordecai, and I hope you find that job."

"Thanks."

"This is Melissa Carrington, reporting for KMOV Channel 4 News."

Shad clicked a link that led to another article about homelessness in St. Louis. Most of it consisted of interviews with people who did not want the homeless in their neighborhoods or near their businesses. But there were some pictures of the camp.

Picture any African refugee settlement, minus the wire fences to keep people in, or out. Shad saw the homeless people he would have expected to, and ten minutes earlier might have characterized as bums—alcoholics and drug addicts who had hit rock bottom; those with mental health issues.

But also there were families with children.

Shad saw someone else he knew, a kid who had left the compound a little over a year ago. Joshua had been only twelve, but after a huge fight with his mother he had run away. Shad didn't think Josh would be fourteen yet. He should be in a foster home, shouldn't he? Maybe he had somehow managed to avoid contact with the authorities.

There was a truck in the pictures, some people who looked like college kids were handing out food and coats. Shad could make out part of the name, "Be The." The rest of it was obscured by a tree and somebody's clothesline.

Shad opened a message box and typed into it, "Hi, Leah, are you online?"

After a moment, she replied, "Hi, Shad! Where were you yesterday afternoon?"

SWhite: My history report was due, so I had to work on it all weekend.

LNielson: How did you do on it?

SWhite: OK, I think. I hope. Now I have to wait for Mr. Harvey to grade them all.

LNielson: You always get good grades in history. I'm sure it will be fine.

SWhite: I hope so. Are you and your mom still looking for a church?

LNielson: I think we may have found one. They're non-denominational, mostly young people. They're really heavy into community outreach. Love your neighbor, judge not lest ye be judged. They don't talk much about sin. We're all sinners, so why point fingers? If you really love the sinner, you don't have to hate the sin. Let go and let God. It's different. Peaceful.

SWhite: That's good. I saw Mordecai on TV a little bit ago. They showed that camp he's living in. &amp; Joshua Dettweiler is there too. How can he not be in a foster home?

LNielson: Our social worker is really busy. I don't think they have enough people to do everything.

SWhite: I saw some people with a truck giving out sandwiches and coats. I could only see part of the truck, but there was a sign that started Be The. Do you know what that is?

LNielson: It's probably Be The Change. They started out as a sorority doing a community service project, but then they really got into it and recruited a bunch of other people. They have a web page, I bookmarked it. I'll email the URL to you.

SWhite: Thanks.

LNielson: How's Shankie?

SWhite: He's doing good. He tried to herd Brains and Wheelie. It was hilarious. I have a video but I'm not allowed to email it. :(

LNielson: The little guys? That must have been really, really funny. We'll come visit you sometime, and I'll get to meet them. I just know I will.

SWhite: I sure hope you can.

LNielson: My break's over, sorry. Talk to you later!

SWhite: See you, Leah.

LNielson: Oh, hey, I'll send you Mordecai's email. You can ask him about Josh. He only checks it every now and then at the library, so you have to wait.

SWhite: Thanks.

Shad got back to work as well. Still, he couldn't get the images from that camp out of his head. If it hadn't been for his uncle, he probably would be living there too. He couldn't imagine what they did to survive in the dead of winter.

After he finished his lessons for the day, he sent a long thank-you letter to James White. Then he emailed Mordecai Phillips. That was harder to write, he wasn't sure what to say.

_Dear Mordecai,_

_I saw you on the news today and Leah gave me your email, so I thought I would write and get in touch. First, I wanted to ask if there is anything you need. I am living in a foster home in Nevada but I still have kin in St. Louis, so if there is anything I will do my best to get it to you. Also, on the same news program I saw that Josh Dettweiler is living in the same place so I was wondering if he is doing OK. He is awful young to be on his own. And I was wondering about the other people who escaped from the church. I am doing OK and I hope you are too._

_Your friend,_

_Shad White_

He sent the email, closed his laptop, dropped a letter to his uncle in the outgoing mail, and then decided to see what the other teenagers were doing before supper.

No one wanted to stray too far from Admin; too many of them were waiting for family to return from the raid. Shad wasn't too worried about Ratchet, who was supposed to be in a parking lot several miles from where the fight had happened. Evanon knew that Ironhide and Chromia and her sisters had been in the middle of it, and although he had talked to them both on the phone, he would worry until she and Ironhide were home and he could see with his own two eyes that they were safe. Junior Epps' dad was assigned to the base now, but that was almost as bad, because the elder Epps would act like a bear with a sore head as long as his brothers and sisters went in harm's way without him—and there was the added issue that Junior's little brother didn't handle stress well, and he was getting old enough to understand that something serious was going on and get upset by it. Junior's parents had their hands full with D'andre, so Junior had to take responsibility for his brothers and sisters.

Just as Mikaela Banes had taken responsibility for all of them. Mikaela had come by a beat-up old SUV which she had brought back to base to teach the kids how to fix up. She had the idea to give it to Jack when he turned eighteen so he could use it to haul the younger kids around. They spent the afternoon up to their elbows in grease. Mikaela had the patience to let them make mistakes so they could learn, rather than do the job quicker and easier herself. She even found stuff for the little tag-alongs to do, that kept them busy and away from any dangerous tools that were in use by the older kids up around the engine. Generally, anything that allowed them to make a greasy mess all over their old clothes made them happy. Chip was there too, helping Miko and Raf work on the electrical system.

They quit in time for everyone to get cleaned up before dinner. Nearly everyone gravitated to the Admin building for something to eat, and for news.

About 1730, Jazz announced that the team was due back soon and directed the civilians to wait in Building C, where they would not obstruct the runway or access to Admin or the medbay. Shad walked Shankie first, then went with the others to wait for them to land.

He checked his email on his phone to pass the time, and found that Mordecai had answered his email.

_Dear Shad,_

_Thanks for writing. I'm glad to hear that you're doing good and so am I. There is not really anything that I need because I make enough doing odd jobs to eat pretty good. If you really want to help, though, you could take up a collection and buy a gift card from one of the grocery stores. I could use it to buy food for some of the folks here who don't have very much. Lots of them are worse off than me._

_Josh is staying with some older boys. I think he is OK, I talked to him once about turning himself in to get in a foster home but he is afraid he will end up with someone like his mom who would treat him mean. Josh and this old lady everyone calls Granny Josephine take care of each other. She had an apartment but she let her grandson stay with her and he got caught with drugs and he got them kicked out. Their camp is next to Benjie and Rahab, they're having another baby. They help look out for Granny. Elijah and Luke were here but they got a job on a riverboat going back and forth between Chicago and New Orleans. They've been sending some money when they can. I don't know if you're old enough to remember Hepzibah Collins? She's a housemaid for these these two old rich people. If they have a party or something, they send her down here with the leftovers._

_Talk to you later,_

_Mordecai_

Shad carefully pecked a reply on the phone's small screen.

_Dear Mordecai,_

_If you have any contact information for anyone else, please send it to me. I will take up a collection for the grocery card and send the money to my uncle. He can buy the card and take you to get the groceries one day he isn't working. I'm sure he won't mind._

_Shad_

Just as he hit Send, Shad heard a shout, and everyone ran outside.

Silverbolt and the Osprey squadron had just shown up on the base's sensors. Their family and friends were coming home.

End Part Ten


	11. Chapter 11

Part Eleven

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Silverbolt touched down at Mission City around 1800 hours, just after the beginning of fourth joor. As soon as he rolled to a stop, the Ospreys settled around him and their cargo of S14 and NEST troops began to pour out.

The wounded were delivered to Medbay. Emery McKuen was the only non-ambulatory case, confined to a stretcher by a backstrut injury. Likewise, Warp was carried into Medbay, but he was in stasis as a precautionary measure and Ratchet, changing that for the young warper, believed he would soon recover.

Under heavy guard, Soundwave went directly to Excellion, where he would remain in judicial stasis.

Optimus waited until everyone else had vacated Silverbolt's hold before disembarking. Silverbolt had configured the space to the Prime's specifications, but it was still close quarters. He rolled down the ramp, let Diarwen out and transformed smoothly as soon as he was clear.

He did not fool Ratchet. Both the Prime and Blitzwing were in that condition he abbreviated in English as BTS—beat to scrap. The medic, however, understood the necessity for Optimus to put on a good show for his people. It reassured them, and helped start the process of getting things back to normal.

Optimus, BTS, took his first real look at the base in two days. Nothing had changed, which was good. Lennox and Zain released their troops from formation in the parking lot by Building C.

His own troops—Prowl had disappeared so thoroughly he seemed to have teleported. A huge cheer went up as the Wreckers began to unload the repatriated energon cubes.

Diarwen smiled widely at the sight, turned to her mate, and said, "In my day those would have been cattle, and all would be well 'til the next raid. 'Tis the same difference!"

Optimus chuckled quietly. "Indeed. As the aftermath of battle goes, I will take this gladly."

Diarwen remembered the horror and sorrow following the Battle of Chicago, nigh on eleven months past. "Aye, _acushla_. We have much for which to be grateful."

Chromia passed them, and stopped to check on her foster-son.

::Optimus?::

::I am well, Chromia. We are on our way to medbay, as soon as some of the excitement has settled down,:: Optimus assured her.

::And Diarwen?::

::Scratches and bruises only.::

::Hide tells me that the train is on its way. They'll be in Las Vegas with Blitzwing tomorrow evening.:: She nodded decisively, and moved on with her sisters.

Optimus had considered coming back overland, shadowing the train, but with Ironhide, the Big Twins, and the Protectobots riding it with their prisoner, he knew he was unnecessary. And he needed to be here, not least of all in order to see if Area 51 had gotten any further in solving the mystery of yesterday's convoy hijacking.

Optimus had a bad feeling about that. The weaponry used suggested human criminals with access to technology much more advanced than should have been available to them.

Frank Hastings might not have been the only wealthy human with designs on Cybertronian technology. It appeared that another group with less moral restraint—and less concern about the government coming down on them like the proverbial ton of bricks—had just put their hand in play.

Optimus put that aside to watch Flareup embrace and be embraced by Chromia and Arcee, then leave her sisters to join Barricade and the sparklings near the entrance to Building C.

Arcee stayed with Chromia. Arcee and Sideswipe usually celebrated their victories together, but that had to take a rain check until the next evening. And Hide too, of course, was on the train.

Optimus was heartily tempted to follow Flareup himself; the siren song of his berth was loud and clear in his audials. But first, he needed to get cleared by Ratchet, then wrap things up in Admin. Most of his reports for Director Mearing were nearly complete, awaiting only the senior officers' reports and a final detail check.

There was a queue forming outside Medbay. All four of Silverbolt's brothers were nursing various minor injuries; Silverbolt himself had more urgent damage, courtesy Blitzwing; but of all five, Fireflight's battle damage was most severe.

Optimus checked with Ratchet via their comms, was grumpily allowed to consider himself on the "not urgent" list, and went to Admin.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Not far away, Prowl gave Jazz a long searching look. "Are you sure you don't need a post-mission physical, Jazz? You were in quite a fight there."

The saboteur gifted his mate with a saucy grin. "Ah don't know what Ratchet would look for; it wasn't mah frame that was in that fight. Ah'm fine, Prowl. Ah'll admit, it was a close thing, but Sam healed Diarwen right in the nick of time. Wait'll Ah show you the look on ol' Sounders' faceplates when she come bustin' in there."

Prowl offered a port for Jazz' hardline. He had been "present" for the fight via their sparkbond, but did not have that visual. It went a long way toward helping his fields settle, and so did Prime's word that Jazz would have the final decision about when or if Soundwave was allowed out of stasis, and how much liberty he would have if they did allow him to waken.

"It's all right," Jazz murmured in his audials.

"Yes," Prowl said. "Now that you're with me, it's all right."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Rumble, Buzzsaw, welcome," Excellion said.

"Uh, yeah. Thank you," Rumble said, the words torn out of his vocalizer with their grudging roots still attached. "We got Optimus' permission to see Soundwave."

The Decepticon's former symbionts stood on the cityformer's entrance platform in the wan early-morning sunlight of an April day, Icebreaker a presence behind them not entirely benign. Beyond, Mission City was having a pretty normal day, considering its personnel were two days past a major operation.

"Yes, he commed me that you would be coming," Excellion replied, a small smile crossing the broad face displayed above the entrance. "Welcome. I will light green arrows in the direction you must go. —Icebreaker," he added, nodding.

Icy stepped inside, following his charges at a discreet distance. ::Exy. Are you and Roller busy on Tuesday?::

::No, I've nothing planned.::

::Want to go to the firing range with me? Would Roller enjoy that?::

::Oh, immensely, I believe. I'll comm Optimus to make sure, though.::

He did so, and Optimus replied, ::You will probably find it far more difficult to get him to leave than to go.::

::None of the bots with black paint jobs will be there, will they?:: asked Excellion.

::Why?:: Icy sent.

Excellion sent Icebreaker a file containing his adventures with Roller upon the occasion of Roller's first acquaintance with the Pretenders.

They walked the circumference of Excellion's plating once, and only cut in to a more central level just before the circuit was complete.

Whereupon they made another almost-complete circuit, then doubled back through a roundabout way past Excellion's engines. Rumble had long since picked up Buzzsaw, who was not made to walk the earth, or even the floorplates.

Icy's mirth at Roller's adventures with Excellion aboard flowing through the comms, the bot replied, ::I'll check. I asked because that young warper might be available to visit next Tuesday, and I thought Roller might enjoy meeting him. I'll clear it to take both of them to the range, if Roller would enjoy that.::

::Optimus says that he would. We're almost there,:: Excellion said, a tinge of embarrassment in his comm.

::Yeah, kinda thought this was the long way round,:: Icy replied. He knew what was what, and knew specifically what was not showing those who might still be your enemies your layout; he made no other comment.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

At the door to medbay, Rumble set Buzzsaw down, and reached up to push the intercom button.

Perceptor appeared in the visiplate. "Yes?—Oh, Rumble and Buzzsaw. Optimus told me you would be coming." The door slid aside.

Buzzsaw waddled in with no change of gait or expression; she was, at the best of times, hard to read. Rumble...was not. His optics were fully dilated, and his shutters completely retracted.

Perceptor simply greeted Rumble and Buzzsaw, and nodded to Icy, who moved with them over to the stasis berth presently occupied by Soundwave.

The monitor above his helm was as still and silent as the bot himself.

"He feels...peaceful," Rumble said in surprise.

"Of course he does," Perceptor said shortly. "Lift me up to his berth, please."

Rumble, surprised, did this thing for a bot he had thought of as "enemy" for several vorn.

The small medic clambered over his patient's supine body, and Buzzsaw lifted herself into the air with a clank and a flap. She took up a position near Soundwave's peds.

Icebreaker kicked a stool over to Rumble, and earned a glare for it. But the little bot climbed it, which put his head over the top of the berth.

Soundwave lay flat on his back, in the position most bots used for recharge. His servos were by his side, relaxed, and his optics shuttered.

"We performed his repairs, and will keep him under observation until his systems can incorporate those repairs. This, for instance," Perceptor said, pointing to new welds along one of Soundwave's forearms, "was the worst of his damage, actually: a blade slash from the Prime Consort. The color nanites are the last of the systems to replicate after injury, so once they begin to work, he'll be crated and stored until it's time to rouse him."

"What's stasis like?" Rumble said, browplates contracted.

Perceptor shrugged. "I don't know myself, and I'm not acquainted with anybot who's been placed in long-term stasis. Medical literature says that survivors report no sense at all of time passing."

Rumble said nothing, merely stared at his once-bonded carrier. Buzzsaw did the same.

A few minutes passed. Then the two former symbionts raised their helms and looked at one another, and whatever passed between them, Rumble said, "We're ready to go now.—Where does this go?" he asked, picking up the stool after he had lifted Perceptor down.

Perceptor somehow refrained from fainting in his shock at this version of Rumble, and said, "The corner, there."

Rumble picked up Buzzsaw, said, "Thanks," to Perceptor (which did cause the scientist's awareness to dim briefly).

Once they were beyond Excellion's ramp, Icebreaker said to Rumble, "You guys are pretty different than what I thought you'd be like."

Rumble shot him a Look. "Don't believe everything you hear."

Icebreaker snorted. "Yeah, I think I can manage that. Was it a big shock, coming here?"

Buzzsaw squawked and took off, circling just above their heads, using her newly granted permission to fly. It would be revoked if she ventured near the flightpaths, or flew at more than thirty-four feet. She began to weave a series of Celtic knots in the air.

"Pretty much. Didn't think the Autoblots would come to rescue us, for one thing."

"Huh. So you still don't feel like part of the family."

"No, but that might be changing. Both Buzz and I _felt_ Soundwave when we were in there. He's...different now. He's learned somethin', but I don't know what. And...you coulda killed him, but you didn't."

Prime might have enlightened him on what Soundwave had learned, but Prime was not present. Rumble continued, "When we were bonded to him before, we were all crazy; you had to be to survive around Megatron. Now he's sane. A little bit saner, anyway; I still don't think I'd trust the bot as far as I could throw him if I was Prime. It was loyalty to Megatron that kept Sounders from changin' sides, you know; he was far from the nuttiest one on that crew. That was...probably a tossup between Screamer and Megsy, with Sixshot comin' in third. But Sounders never questioned his loyalty, couldn't really, it's part of carrier programming. So we didn't either." The small symbiont shrugged. "Things are different now. We've changed, too. I don't feel like I have to be crazy anymore."

"Makes you different from Frenzy. He was _crazy_."

A small, reminiscent smile spread across Rumble's face. "He sure was."

They walked on in silence. Just as Buzzsaw came circling close, well under her ten-meter height limit, Rumble said, "I'm going to get my symbol removed."

"Be careful," Icy said. "Based on what I saw in Excellion's medbay, people might begin to think you're actually a nice guy."

Buzzsaw laughed so hard she almost fell out of the sky. She'd known that all along, but it would be nice to get _that_ Rumble out from behind _this_ Rumble.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

By late that Wednesday morning, the base was settling back into normal routine. For a given value of "normal," naturally.

Ratchet had seen to everyone who needed seeing to once they got back to base. Warp was still out like a light, which was beginning to worry the CMO, but scans showed nothing wrong. Emery McKuen amused himself by setting up a screen, for both visual and electronic blockage, around his berth. That allowed him to see his own patients despite his injury, which, perhaps in consequence, was repairing itself faster than Ratchet might otherwise have expected.

Soundwave and Blitzwing lay in stasis aboard Excellion; there was no one else in medbay beyond Barricade and his three accomplices, as Ratchet thought of them, who had just entered, and First Aid, working in the stock area across the room.

He rose and gestured Barricade and the Tiny Trine toward a medical berth.

First Aid flung up his helm. Ratchet paused in his journey, as his apprentice's panic flooded his own fields. ::Firsty, what's wrong?::

::Fireflight's leg!:: sent First Aid, and transmitted a file of fluids spurting.

Ratchet spun toward the Tiny Trine. "Barricade, you stay here! If the littles get bored I've got coloring books on my desk! Comm me if anyone else shows up!"

Even Decepticons knew better than to stop a medic on his way to disaster. Ratchet transformed and sped out the door.

The coloring books, in his absence, failed to hold. Stormy put his down perhaps five minutes later, and hopped down from the berth, spreading his wings to glide most of the way to the medical berth on which Warp lay unconscious. Barricade, distracted by Song, did not track his absence until Stormy had hit the floor and gone behind the screen shielding Warp from curious eyes.

His eyes had not drawn Stormy here. This bot had a signature like his sister's, one which he had not seen in anybot around them. Sure of his welcome everywhere on base, Stormy hopped up to the top of Warp's berth, and watched the youngling sleep.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Yes, you do," Ratchet said. Firmly. The "do" in question was "have to go to medbay."

Fireflight wilted under his servos. "But it's not so very bad, is it?" he said, deploying the Puppy Eyes, at which he was actually very good.

Ratchet hardened his spark, which made Wheeljack, half a corridor away, raise his helm, and smile. "Yes, it is. Your fibular strut is _broken_, Fireflight. It's cut energon and hydraulic lines. Apparently when Blitzwing whacked Superion, you got enough microfractures going that when you landed today, the strut gave."

"I wasn't paying attention," Fireflight said. "If I coulda landed better—"

Ratchet poured cold water all over that hope. "If you did that this time, and the next time, and each time after that, maybe you'd make it for a while. But every landing, even a perfect landing, stresses that strut. Sooner or later, it would give. Be glad it was now, and not in battle."

The Aerialbots peered over Ratchet's and Firsty's shoulders, watching intently. Silverbolt, very tall, held his brother's servo and could still stand far enough back to see over everyone else.

"Okay, let's get you back to medbay," Ratchet said, and prepared to lift Fireflight, whose leg was now splinted.

Two large hands landed on his shoulders. "That's all right, Ratchet, I'll do it," Silverbolt said.

Fireflight, who was to snugglers what Ironhide was to curmudgeons (a serious contender for the World's All-species Best), was very happy with this solution.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Some few minutes after Stormy's departure, Barricade raised his helm to find him gone. "Song, where's your brother?"

She pointed to Warp's curtained berth.

Barricade stood up, at which Skimmer took flight, hovering like a giant hummingbird before flying around the curtain to land beside his brother. "What'cha doin', Stormy?"

"He gots a field like Song's!"

"Really?" Skimmer leaned closer, beak almost touching the unconscious youngling's nose, to get a better reading on the fields.

Barricade hissed at them, "What do you two think you're doing? Don't bother him! He needs to recover! Get back out here!"

He had down the parental Scold in a Whisper, but that proved insufficient: Warp's processor onlined. He came up in a panic, since the last thing he knew he had been possessed by Jazz.

And as soon as his optics onlined, there was a sharp beak a hand's width from his face.

Warp let out an undignified screech and performed the Panicked Flail, subcategory One-armed Because Your Other Arm is Magnetized to the Berth. He was sufficiently startled to manage a pretty good, if very limited, flail with this pinioned arm, which set the leads and energon lines with which it was festooned to jangling.

Stormy and Skimmer squawked and flew away.

The two sparklings and the ruffled, confused youngling settled. It took Warp longer; by the time his fields had evened out, the two Seekerlets were parked, again, on the foot of his berth.

Stormy barely let him figure out which way was up. "Can you teach Song how to warp? Can you?"

"What? Huh?" Warp shuttered his optics, then opened them, and repeated the process. The two were still there, bright yellow and dark blue. "Um, if you're the Seekerlets—where am I, Mission City?"

Stormy nodded. "Yeah! Can you teach her?"

"Well, uh, you're going to have to ask her parents. Hey! Is anybody with these kids? Hello?"

More of his faculties onlined, and he scanned, picked up on Barricade and Skysong. There was a privacy screen up somewhere behind strong fields, those of an adult, and he had no idea who or how many might be behind it.

Barricade pulled Warp's curtain back with the servo not supporting Song. "Hey. Sorry about the kids."

"No, it's OK, there's not too many of us with warp generators. He's probably never been around another bot with one before. Tell me this Song's generator isn't online?"

Song piped, "That's me!" about the time Barricade growled, "No way in the Pit!"

"Good," said Warp, and smiled at Song; he had reason to know just how colossally bad an idea that was. "What's goin' on?"

"Ratchet had to step out, something about one of the Aerialbots' legs."

"What...happened? And who are you? I'm Warp, by the way."

"Barricade. You might have guessed that Optimus Prime's forces raided Soundwave's hideout. Flatline's deactivated, Lugnut got away, and Sounders, Blitzy and two of the squishies are in custody. I guess you are too, but since you're still a mechling, I think they consider you more rescued than captured."

Warp took in the red optics for the first time. Too startled to remember his manners, he demanded, "You're just walking around loose?"

"The war's over, mech. Unless you did something like Flatline used to—"

The youngling shook his helm violently, and instantly regretted it: he was never sure later whether thinking of himself as someone like Flatline, or that motion, was responsible for what happened next.

Barricade scooped up a basin with his free servo and held it for the kid: Warp's tanks contained nothing to purge, but that didn't matter to his frame, which said, _Now. _Right_ now!_

At that moment, Ratchet came in, Silverbolt and Fireflight in his wake, First Aid trailing. The medic's browplates contracted over his nose, and Ratchet snapped, "I told you to comm me!"

"You said comm you if anybody else showed up! Nobot else came in."

Ratchet growled something that was probably "Hit upside the helm a few times too many to have any common sense left" and turned his attention to Warp. "About time you decided to rejoin the living."

By tacit agreement, nobot mentioned exactly how that had happened. Ratchet checked the basin and noted that there was nothing in it. "Dry purge?"

"Yes, sir. I moved my helm, and it felt like I was gonna turn a tank inside out, but nothing came up."

"That's why you've got an energon drip. You took a hard hit to the helm, and suffered a really serious crash and reset. I had you in stasis for quite a while till we could get you back here and see if there was any damage. A purge is pretty common under those circumstances. I was starting to wonder about you taking your own sweet time booting up again. I need a medical hardline here, got to take a look at your boot log to see if there were any problems." The medic glanced at Barricade, and jerked his helm in the direction of out.

Barricade took the littles back to the other berth and sat down with them while Ratchet examined his patient.

Song clambered out of his arms to sit on his knee and peer up into her parent's optics, one clawed servo beseechingly on the forearm she'd just vacated. "But he's like me! I gots to talk to him!"

"Song," Barricade said patiently, "you will. When Ratchet gives the okay, if Warp feels up to it, you can talk to him again."

"He's gots to teach me how to warp!"

"If you ask him nicely, when he feels better," Barricade said, "I'm sure he will. But you will have to wait a bit, until you grow up. It's not good for a youngling to have her warp generator turned on until she's older, and then there's a limiter until she's about ready for her adult upgrades. I'm sure Warp will tell you that."

"Will I ever," Warp murmured, and Ratchet gave him a sharp glance.

"I can dial yours back if you like," the medic told his patient, "but I won't turn it off. Unlike Song out there, you've developed threat-reaction protocols that depend on having your generator online. The first time you felt threatened, you'd try to break your limiter, and do yourself worse damage than you would if I left well enough alone." He disconnected the hardline gently. "You were lucky. No errors introduced."

He offered the youngling his arm, and Warp grasped it to sit up.

And pondered the difference between being a conscripted child soldier and being a, a, bot—prisoner or rescuee, didn't matter—under the care of the Autobots. He hadn't been harmed, hadn't had his personality files wiped, a terror he lived in daily under Soundwave's servo. And Ratchet, stories of whom had been used to beat him into submission, had _offered his arm strut as support_ to sit up.

Flatline would do what had to be done to leave you functional, maybe without turning off the pain sensors if he felt like it that day, and let you sit on, fall back onto, get up off, or fall from the medical berth as your circumstances dictated. And laugh if it was the last.

Stormy chose that moment to flap to the end of his berth. "Will you teach Song how to warp?" he said, shoving politeness aside.

"When she should know, I'll teach her, once her parents give me permission," Warp said gravely, and was startled at smile that flashed across Stormy's faceplates.

"I'll tell her!" he said excitedly, and flapped off.

Ratchet grumbled, "It isn't like I haven't told them seventeen times each not to violate patient confidentiality."

But Song's shrieks of glee across the medbay brought a smile to Warp's faceplates, and to Ratchet's too: although he hid it immediately behind a scowl, because, after all, he had a reputation to maintain.

Too late. Warp, who once had every reason to be observant of the adults around him, had seen and noted that transient smile.

End Part Eleven


	12. Chapter 12

Part Twelve

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Not long after Ratchet finished examining the Tiny Trine and sent the little family on their way with a small oil cake each, including one for Barricade, Warp fell into recharge.

Ratchet let him rest, knowing that it was the best thing for the youngling even if he had been in stasis the last several joor. His self-repair was fully on-line now, and would finish its work much faster if the kid let it have top priority. He put off Jazz' request to question Warp until the next morning, at least, telling him why.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Jazz made no protest at receiving the news of his delayed meeting with Warp: was in fact relieved to have it postponed.

He went back to the office he shared with Prowl and the two of them spent the next half-joor running down leads on the dead men who had attempted to hijack the energon convoy from Area 51, to no effect. Someone had done an incredible job of covering their tracks.

Either that, or, as crazy as it sounded, the men had never been in the system to begin with. Their fingerprints were on record nowhere, and image recognition searches also came up empty. It was as if they had simply appeared out of thin air that day.

Prowl suggested, "Send their DNA to one of those ancestry search businesses. Perhaps we will discover a lead that way."

"Good thinkin'." Jazz set that in motion, in cooperation with the NCIS investigators still at Area 51.

Prowl asked, "All right, what is it? You haven't been this quiet in vorn. Something is bothering you."

Jazz sighed, and refocused his attention on his mate. "It's Warp. Kid's gonna hate me. An' he's got a right."

Prowl was silent for a lengthy period of time. Then he said, "It is possible that he will be angry with you for some time. In the end, however, since he seems a rational being, he will realize that you chose the path of least harm to him among a number of unsavory alternatives."

Jazz half-turned to his mate. "He's just a kid, Prowl! Ah used him every bit as hard as Sounders did."

"Yes. For as long as was necessary to ensure his eventual safety, and not one second beyond that time. Would it help you to hear the probabilities that he would have been deactivated had you chosen any other course of action?"

Jazz shook his helm. "Got enough recharge fluxes about things that did happen. Don't need any more about the bullets we dodged."

Prowl gave Jazz that cool Praxian smile that still flipped the saboteur's inverters, will he nill he. "Indeed. I suspect the only real harm done was to your conscience, Jazz."

"Well, if that's true, Ah guess Ah still got one."

"I've known that all along. The hard part has been convincing _you_," Prowl said, and felt his mate's fields settle.

Prowl smiled again, and turned back to his own work.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

It was nearly lunchtime on Thursday before Ratchet agreed that Warp was well enough to answer questions, and, more importantly, to be out from under his assessing eye long enough to do so.

Jazz and Prowl went to medbay to escort the mechling to Optimus' office. When they got there, Ratchet was giving him the usual discharge instructions, which generally boiled down to "Avoid doing anything stupid that will land you back here."

When Warp saw Jazz, he pulled his fields in tight and got quiet. Jazz realized he was falling back on the same defenses that had kept him alive as a child soldier, and took a step back to let Prowl collect the mechling, sorrow in his own spark for the need.

Warp might have felt that, as Jazz made no effort to keep it from his fields.

Ratchet gave both of the adults a look that promised the Pit to pay if they were responsible for a relapse. That was no idle threat, and neither had any intention of inciting the medic to make good on it.

"Warp, this is Prowl. Jazz you know already."

"Hello, Warp."

"Uh, hello. Hello...Jazz."

"Warp. Nice ta see ya up and around."

But that was the end of the conversation, as Warp said "Fine" when asked how he was, and "I don't know" when asked if he needed anything before he saw Optimus. Optimus' office wasn't that far from medbay, though, out the back door of the Admin Building, past the narrow strip of sand between it and Hangar C, and in the back door of that hangar.

Optimus and Diarwen shared the rear corner quarters on the parking lot side of the hangar, looking out towards the humans' and Pretenders' living quarters behind the airstrip. Optimus' office was next door to his quarters. That kept the continual bustle in Admin from spilling into his office for trivial reasons when he was trying to get paperwork done, but if something there needed his attention, he was only a few steps away.

Optimus made a point of being seated behind his desk when the three arrived. He knew the last time Warp had seen him, he had been in battle mode, fighting Blitzwing, and he didn't want to scare the mechling any more than absolutely could not be avoided.

Warp was shaking as he went to one knee. "Prime."

"Warp. Please do not kneel to me, as I am not your better. No one here is, and no one here will harm you. We do our best to protect all sparklings and younglings, and you are still a youngling to us. No one holds you responsible for decisions that adult mecha forced on you."

Warp looked up, astonishment warring with fear on his faceplates. Optimus continued, "You are as responsible as any other youngling for the decisions you make from now on, but we do not expect you to be an adult. You are safe here." The Prime stood, coming around his desk to offer the mechling a servo and get him to his feet.

"Yes, Prime," the mechling said, rising, but all three of the adults knew that if astonishment lay behind those words, obedience and not trust were at the root of them.

Optimus gestured him to a chair in front of the desk. "How long were you with the Decepticons?"

"Since the fall of Iacon. I was in the youth sector there."

"I am somewhat surprised you survived," Optimus said, reseating himself. "Megatron had a reputation for killing younglings and sparklings."

"He deserved it, from what I saw." Warp took a moment to settle his fields, and was surprised to feel support from Prowl, and a very hesitant offer of same from Jazz. He didn't accept Jazz', exactly, but neither did he shun the mech. He didn't exactly accept Prowl's with open arms, either, though accept it he did.

"When the city fell," Warp said, accessing old files of bad memories, "Megatron rounded us all up. He killed all the little ones, and any of us who were big enough to hold a weapon had the choice to fight for him or get shot too. I was still a sparkling, but I was in a bigger frame than most. I lied about my age and said I wanted to fight. When they figured out I had a warp generator, they let me. Some of the volunteers they shot anyway." The youngling looked down at his servos.

Optimus scowled, which was a light version of what lay on the bonded pair's faceplates, then lightened his expression immediately when the young warper looked up at him and flinched. He asked, "Did they activate your warp generator at that time?"

Warp nodded. "Yes, sir." "Sir" was what Soundwave told Warp to call him, and "Sir" was easiest. Warp noted, however, that the word came to his lip-plates a lot easier for Optimus than it did for Soundwave.

The Prime sat back in his chair and folded his servos. "What did Ratchet say about the effects of that on one so young?"

"He said I've burned out some relays, old damage that didn't heal, sir. He scraped off a lot of the char and boosted the repair nanites, but he said not to hope for too much. Until there are facilities available to do a rebuild, I probably won't ever be able to warp any farther than I can right now, but he tells me it may stop hurting to warp in a while."

"I see." Optimus kept from scowling this time because he could see Jazz and Prowl; they sat behind Warp, and they were doing enough scowling for about seven bots each.

Warp shifted slightly. "Sir, what's going to happen to me now?"

Optimus looked him straight in the optics. "Please call me Optimus. That you use that form of address tells me you were well brought up; someone cared about you enough to teach you. However, Warp, there is no one on this base whom you _must_ address as 'sir' unless that bot, human, or Pretender has earned your respect."

Warp's optics widened slightly. Optimus continued, "What happens to you now, Warp? That is up to you. The humans view you as a repatriated enemy combatant. They hold me responsible for the behavior of all such individuals; bots in that category are not permitted to leave the base without an Autobot or NEST escort.

"However, primarily you are a youngling to us. Like all of our younglings, you will be offered the opportunity to learn any trade for which you can find a teacher. Once you are an adult, you will become a full member of our society."

Warp sat back in his chair and exhaled sharply. "You mean that, sir? Bots won't hold what I did against me?"

Optimus tilted his helm. "Would you have gone over to the Decepticons if you had been given a choice in the matter?"

"No, sir. By the time I was old enough to start thinking about that, there were too many horrible stories about them. But once—once they got me, it would have been suicide to tell them no. I never got a chance to escape. Never."

Optimus stretched his servo out to the youngling, who, after a moment, took it. "Warp, none of us will hold against you anything you did while in captivity. As well, it did not go without notice that, during the energon raid, you assisted one of the injured human troops, and made an effort to avoid more casualties."

"Yes, sir. I did." The youngling actually smiled, and let go of Optimus' servo. "I caught a beating for it, but nothing worse."

Optimus exhaled. Jazz and Prowl, who knew their Prime well, could read the fields under the unruffled front he presented the youngling. Prime was shaken by that simple detail, which said a great deal about the conditions the young warper had lived under, come to regard as "normal." "Have you any questions for me, Warp?"

The youngling shifted in his chair. "Sir—uh, Soundwave—Ratchet says he's a prisoner. There's no chance he could escape and make me go with him, is there?"

Optimus said, "He is being held in medically-enforced stasis. He is as secure as it is possible to keep him anywhere on this planet. We will ensure that he never presents a threat to you, or anyone else, again."

Warp said nothing, but his fields, roiled, began to settle. Once that process was complete, Prime asked, "Do you feel able to tell us about being a Decepticon prisoner, Warp?"

Prowl sent a startled glyph to Jazz. ::I would never have thought this was wise!::

::Oh, it is, it is. Can't have been pleasant, and now, the kid's got a chance to get it off his chestplates.::

Warp proved to have little in the way of strategic information, but he did indeed have a great deal to get off his chestplates.

Optimus was known for being a talented speaker, but Jazz knew him for an even better listener. Some of the things that the young mech talked about were painful even for the hardened saboteur and the practical strategist to listen to, but if the Prime also found it difficult, he never let Warp know that.

Occasionally, Warp mentioned something about Strika that Prowl and Jazz wanted more detail on, but after consulting over the bond they decided to keep a file of those questions and wait.

For now, Prime was helping the kid start the long journey of coming to terms with his past and beginning a new life. There would be plenty of time later to find out if he knew anything of strategic value about Strika. Due to the mechling's low status, Prowl thought it unlikely. But you never knew.

Prowl realized with a start that he had prioritized Warp's well-being over the value of the information he might hold. That was not logical, but it satisfied parts of his coding that he had suppressed all his life.

Praxian at his core, Prowl was all about arranging cohort to best position oneself to raise sparklings. He had put that need aside because neither he nor Jazz had been in a position to take on that responsibility, a decision proven wise by his own death on Iacon Ridge.

But things were different now, and Warp was in need of parents. Prowl wanted to meet that need, and he did not hide this from his bondmate.

Jazz looked over at him with a smile. ::You stay an' talk to Prime. Ah'll take him up to the Cliff House and 'find' him temporary quarters next to ours. We'll see if he can get used to havin' meh around. If Ah freak him out too bad, he'll need more time 'fore we can even think about it.::

::Are you sure, Jazz? This is a large commitment, and I would prefer not to railroad you into it.::

::Ah'm sure. Ah owe him, Prowler. If he can forgive me, if he can give me another chance, this'd be a good way to make it up to him for the scare Ah gave him. Ah tol' ya he was a good kid. He was just in a bad situation, that's all. We can help him get hisself turned around.::

::I shall speak to Prime.::

Optimus noted the smile that passed between the partners, but he was focused on Warp, and did not enquire into it.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

With more than a little trepidation, Warp accompanied Jazz out of Hangar C. Because Warp's T-cog was disabled, and would be until he earned the next level of trust, they walked up the road that led from the base up to Excellion's landing pad and the entrance to the Cliff House.

It wasn't exactly hot yet, too early in the year, but it would be soon, hard, and often. It was a little above optimum operating temperature for both bots, and their fans came on.

About halfway between the hangars and Excellion's landing pad, Jazz, the shorter of the two, sped up sufficiently to make optic contact with the youngling.

Carefully, he kept a distance, and wound his fields in tight as he said, "Warp, Ah'm sorry for what Ah hadda do to ya. If Ah woulda had mah way about it, ya never woulda known Ah was there til afterwards—ain't nowhere near as traumatic that way. Ah'm sorry about lockin' ya behind that firewall. That ain't fun, Ah been there mahself and Ah know exactly how bad it feels. Please understand, Ah wouldn't'a done it if Ah coulda thought of a better way t' get us all outta there in one piece."

The youngling spun to face him, faceplates locked in a scowl, and a swamping tide of fear coming from him. "You _never_ do that to me again. If you gotta shoot me, just shoot me, but don't you _ever_ do that to me again! Or I swear to Primus I will warp half of you as far as I can go the first chance I get!"

Jazz said more calmly than he felt, "Ah don't blame ya one bit for feelin' that way. Ah would never do that t' anyone unless it was absolutely necessary. Ah don't see any reason why Ah'd even think about it now that you ain't a 'Con any more and it ain't a matter o' life an' death for a whole buncha other folks. Only defense Ah got is, we was tryin' to get outta that mess with as many alive an' well as possible, an' that definitely included you."

Warp's background had left him with no illusions and no rose-colored lenses for his optics. In spite of himself, his processor analyzed Jazz' claims, and came to the same conclusion. "...OK. This time." The spoken word was qualified by a lot of glyphs conveying grudging acceptance.

Probation. In both directions, Jazz knew, but it was at least a beginning. He vowed not to let the kid down.

He changed the subject to talk a bit about what was available where they were going: the quarters themselves, the common washracks, which held the tools and equipment for a more thorough wash than those in the quarters, the oil pool.

Warp stopped him with a simple question. "Where are we going, anyhow?"

"Up there, to Cliff House," Jazz said, pointing. "It's all new construction, so pardon our dust. There's an empty bay on our corridor that we can grab for ya, if nobot claimed it since yesterday. It's close t' the wash racks an' a common room, so it's real convenient."

Warp stopped for minute to survey the cliff. "If this was metal instead of rock, I'd almost think we were back on Cybertron."

"How far down ya been? Ever been anywhere near the core?"

"No, I haven't. We left almost immediately after I was enlisted. I spent most of my time on Nemesis and then on the moon."

"The very lowest levels was like this, once upon a time. Carved out of rock. 'Course over the vorn, bots built up over it."

"I never knew that."

"Milestrina'll teach ya all about it. She's our Conservator."

The levels of the building were connected by a circular ramp that permitted wheeled bots to simply drive to their quarters, much like a human parking garage. The center of this ramp was an atrium, part of the air circulation system. Living quarters were situated where most could be given windows carved through the cliff face.

The interior side of the complex, facing solid rock, was reserved for common areas and working spaces. If they needed to expand in the future, they could build above the clifftop, carve burrows into the rock below the surface, or build further back into the mountainside: whatever circumstances required.

Jazz exited the ramp about midway up. He led the way to an empty apartment next to the quarters that he and Prowl would share, once they got around to moving in. As he had told Warp, there was a common area overlooking the ramp and atrium, and a large wash rack with an oil pool deep enough for the Prime at the end of the corridor. While everyone's quarters had rudimentary facilities for getting clean, now they would all have access to the facilities and tools they required for a full detailing.

Jazz could remember Towers mecha turning their nasal ridges up at the "dirty low-castes" who were denied entry to the high-castes' wash houses, where servants washed and polished and buffed them to a mirror finish. Here, everyone was allowed to get as clean as he or she liked.

When he showed the room and its equipment to Warp, the mechling stood and stared for a moment, optics bright. "Mech, I don't even know what half this stuff is!"

Jazz snorted. "Get Sunstreaker to tell you. He knows what they all do."

Warp had no intention of getting anywhere near the Big Twins, not for a long while anyhow. He was fairly clean after having been in Ratchet's medbay, but he figured a lengthy soak in that oil pool to loosen the old caked-on grease and dirt in his seams and then an equally long session with a pressure wand would be a really good start. The rest of the implements, whatever they were, could wait.

No one had claimed the apartment yet, so Jazz cheerfully overrode the lock and let them in. There was little there, other than a bare berth and some empty shelves. The window was small, to keep most of the heat out, with a deep shelf for a window sill. Most bots would keep their personal energon cubes there.

Jazz said, "Ya can get Excellion to fabricate furniture for ya, once ya figure out what ya want. Also a lot of those bots know how to make stuff, like meshes fer yer berth, or a cushion fer your couch, or a wall hangin' to make th' place more like home. Paint, if ya don't like the colors. We'll get ya a vid screen an' a terminal; ya can use the ones in the commons till they get yers installed. Over there's yer energon tap, if ya want more'n yer personal cube can make. The meter'll tell ya how much is left on yer ration an' when yer next one's due. Or if ya d'rather refuel in any of the common areas, ping a dispenser with yer ID an' ya can draw your ration there."

Warp took it all in with a slow three-sixty pivot, optics wide. "Wow, this is like the officers' quarters on Nemesis."

Jazz parked a hip strut against the room's window. "Nobot here has better quarters'n anybot else. Ya might have more room, or different facilities like an office or a lab, if ya need it, but ain't nobot lives in a dump. Your wash rack is through there. The private ones ain't fancy but ya won't have to wait in line. What do you think you'll need?"

"Uh, maybe some meshes for the berth, and a chair or a couch or something to sit on. Something to put the vid screen and terminal on." Warp looked in the washrack. "Looks like I need solvent, a bucket and a brush, some polishing rags, stuff like that?" He checked his subspace, and set his energon cubes on the window sill.

"OK, let's go over to Excellion and see about all that. If anything has to be fabricated, he'll put it on the list and ping ya when ya can pick it up. While we're over there, we'll talk to Milestrina about gettin' ya enrolled in school."

"Oh, yeah, I'll need a desk or a table to do my homework on, unless I'm supposed to work out in the commons."

Jazz smiled at the youngling, and for the first time, Warp smiled back. "You'll want a desk or something, in case it's noisy out there, or ya just want some time to yourself. Keep yer optics open when we get over to Excellion, see how other bots have decorated around their doors. Ya might get some ideas to spruce up the place. It's awful bare when ya first move in."

"OK. I don't know what kind of decorations to ask for. I've never had anything like this in my life! I hope something'll seem right."

Jazz understood that without needing an explanation. He said, "No hurry, get settled in and let it grow on ya. Maybe let Milestrina lend ya some books about furnishings, or give ya a slide show." He clapped Warp, who jumped, on the pauldron, and said, "Sorry. I sorta forgot how hard things was for ya until two days ago. Wanna go draw yer supplies?"

"Yes, please," Warp said, and gave Jazz a second smile. Perhaps, the saboteur thought as he led the way, earning Warp's forgiveness would be less difficult than he feared.

He wouldn't forgive himself until after that had happened.

End Part Twelve


	13. Chapter 13

Part Thirteen

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Once Jazz and Warp had taken their leave, Prowl asked Optimus, "Have you given any thought to Warp's status now? What is to become of him?"

"As far as I am concerned, he has more or less the same status as the younglings who came to us with Excellion."

Prowl frowned. "They are a cohort, with Drift as their leader and adults that they have known several vorn as their advisors and caretakers. They are a family."

"That is true."

"Warp, on the other hand, has no one now, and has had no one for all the time he was in captivity. Continuously during that time, he has been the target of physical and mental abuse by the older Decepticons. I wonder how much he realizes was abuse, and how much he thought was simply the way of things."

Optimus nodded. "That is also true. In many ways he is in the same condition as Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were when we first pulled them out of the Kaon arenas. He has learned to survive, but not what it is to thrive."

"For that, he will need parents. Jazz and I would like to become his Guardians, and invite him to join our cohort when he is ready."

Optimus smiled, leaned back in his chair, and folded his servos. "I suspect Jazz will win him over quickly, but that is not the same as earning his trust."

Prowl looked his Prime steadily in the optics, tension reflected, as always, in the carriage of his doorwings. "As his Guardian, Jazz would have the opportunity to do that. And, until Jazz has done so, Warp will have the security of knowing Jazz' Guardian protocols will prevent him from deliberately taking any action harmful to his Guarded."

But that brought a frown to Optimus' faceplates. "Prowl, how will having active Guardian protocols affect you? Your tacnet is quite demanding, and Guardianship..."

Optimus' voice had trailed off, but he didn't need to finish that sentence. Both of them knew that if battle occurred around Warp, for some reason, his Guardians would be first and foremost exactly that.

Prowl considered for a moment, optics trained, but not entirely focused, on the view out Optimus' window. "I am Praxian. In Iacon, the cohorts that you choose are the most enduring. In Praxus, whenever possible we would have remained with the cohort into which we were sparked for all our of function. My bonding with Jazz would have created an alliance between our cohorts, had he had one. If I had bonded to another Praxian, we would have raised sparklings to be heirs for first for one of our cohorts, then for the other, and all of us would have alternated our time between them."

"So, if not for Jazz, you would have been completely at loose ends after Praxus fell."

"Yes." Prowl looked down at his own servos. "Praxian coding cannot adapt to the lack of city-state and cohort. Once those were gone, I would have searched for them endlessly, and descended into coding-madness very quickly had Jazz not been my partner. His presence kept me functional."

"And now, that coding is pushing you to perpetuate your cohort."

"Yes, Prime."

"I begin to see why Starscream chose Barricade as Guardian for the Trine. As unlikely as it seemed on the surface, his coding predisposed him to be a good parent."

Prowl might have smiled, if the observer knew him well. "Precisely."

The Prime picked up a small object from his desktop. Prowl had never known what it was, only that it occupied Optimus' servos while his processor ran.

In a very few moments, the larger mech returned it to his desktop, and smiled at Prowl. "With Warp's consent, I see no reason why you and Jazz should not become his Guardians. I think it will be beneficial to all of you. If you should ever require more information on Iaconian younglings than survives in our records, I am sure that Chromia and Ironhide will be more than happy to answer any questions that might remain."

"I would value their advice. It seems that the most significant differences revolve around the amount of structure required. Praxian sparklings and younglings prefer an orderly, well-planned existence, while those with Iaconian programming lines seem to need more room for spontaneity."

"I wonder if that might not explain Bluestreak. I never thought about it before, since he was from Tyger Pax, but his frame type is more typically Praxian. If his programming lines are also, then the freewheeling younglinghood that he experienced aboard Excellion may not have been the best environment for his optimal development."

"It might have contributed to his being who he is now. I have spent some time with him, but I never thought to ask if he might be more Praxian than the Simfurite lines usually found in Tyger Pax. If that is indeed the case, the trauma that he experienced during the battle and the Diaspora, combined with the lack of structure and sense of purpose during their journey here, would certainly explain his anxiety and uncertainty. Those are classic behaviors that all of us with Enforcer training were told to look for when we suspected a cohort of serious mistreatment of a sparkling or youngling."

Optimus looked down at his own servos. "How terrible that Enforcers had to be trained to know that."

"It is not only our people, Prime. Humans...young Shad White was fortunate in many ways." Prowl sighed. "Blue, though...if you are correct, then I have done Bluestreak a disservice. I will speak to him about his coding and early cohort the first opportunity that I have. It may be of help to him to learn to adhere to a stricter schedule. I found following the Way of Metallikato to be grounding as well. The Principles of the Way provide a framework that is very helpful to Praxians. If he thinks it will be of help to him, we could discuss that."

"Thank you, Prowl. I would see all of our people as comfortable and well-adjusted as possible in exile, especially the young. We who remember a time before the fall and the war carry Cybertron-that-was within us. They will have to discover for themselves what Cybertron is today, in this new paradigm."

His second in command inclined his helm. "Exile can become assimilation. Possibly their generation will become Terrans, or something entirely new. You will guide us all into that future, Prime."

"If Primus wills," Optimus replied thoughtfully. He thought, though, that his junior Primes—Sam, and Hot Rod upon his elevation—might have more to do with guiding their generation. They had been touched by war, but not shaped and hardened by it.

Optimus and his generation embodied the wisdom and strength of the past, and provided the foundation of the future. It would be the young who built upon that foundation.

He said, "Perhaps you should find Jazz and Warp, and see what they think."

"I believe I will. Thank you, Prime."

"Good joor, Prowl."

Prowl, leaving Optimus' office, thought that this conversation was far from the first time Optimus had changed his life with a few words. Always, in the past, those words had proven an improvement.

On his way to Jazz and Warp, he sought Bluestreak out, and found him just finishing a lesson with Milestrina and a group of his agemates, new adults finding their place now that the war was over. Jazz had brought Warp to be enrolled in classes, which shouldn't take too long; that gave Prowl time to speak to Bluestreak.

"Prowl," the younger mech said in greeting, sending a glyph that the Japanese would have translated as "sensei."

"Blue. Do you have a few moments to walk with me?"

"A _few_ moments. Ironhide is expecting me at the proving grounds in a little while."

"It shouldn't take long." They went out onto one of Excellion's balconies, overlooking what was becoming a busy square between Excellion's main gate and the Cliff House entrance. Both leaned their elbows on the railing, and watched the action below.

"Bluestreak, I have a question for you. You are not obligated to answer if it upsets you in anyway."

The young gunner inclined his helm. "I understand. You know you can ask me anything, Prowl."

Prowl took a deep breath, and quarter-turned to face the younger bot. "I was wondering if your coding is from a Simfurite line, or Praxian."

"I'm not surprised that it seems like both to you. I mean, everyone wonders that. See, one of my parents was a priest, originally from Simfur, and the other a Praxian expatriot. When they commissioned my frame and innate coding, they wanted it to reflect both of them. My Praxian genitor hoped that the Simfurite influence would keep me from having any Praxian glitches."

"I thought that might be the case. How much do you know about Praxians and our relationships with our cohorts?"

Bluestreak shook his helm. "Not much—there was never anybot to ask. I mean, should I have asked you? Are there things I don't know that I've been doing wrong? There must be or you wouldn't be talking to me about it. What did I do?"

"Bluestreak, wait. You haven't done anything wrong. But there are some things that might make your life more comfortable. It depends on how much Praxian coding you have. Will you be free after circle tomorrow morning?"

"I can make time, yes."

"I will prepare a data file for you and send it to you as soon as I can. We can discuss it tomorrow morning."

Blue cocked his helm at his mentor. "What is all this about, Prowl?"

"Praxians require order in our lives. It is uncomfortable when our schedules are continually upended. We need to set goals for ourselves and work toward them in an organized manner. It is not good for us to be at loose ends for extended periods. We need a function in life. Depending on how much your Simfurite coding influenced you, this may not have been a tremendous problem for you—or it may have been a source of continual stress and frustration. It may have added to the difficulty of dealing with what happened at Tyger Pax. Does any of that sound familiar to you?"

"Maybe. I mean, sometimes on the way here, I felt like part of a mob. I never really knew what I was supposed to be doing. There never seemed to be a purpose that we were working toward, other than getting here. No one seems to know what we're going to do now, it's like we're just waiting for someone to tell us what we're meant to be doing. I mean, I'm not complaining, especially now that we have enough fuel, but what comes next? I feel like I missed an exit or something!"

Prowl said, "Please do not feel alone in this. Many of us who fought this war are full of questions about the future and our part in it. I will send you that file, and things will be clearer after you have read it. Tomorrow, we will make a beginning on answering these questions."

"Thank you."

"Good joor, Bluestreak."

"Good joor to you as well, Prowl."

The ninja went back inside and found Jazz studying a complex woven hanging displayed on the classroom door. "Milestrina's fillin' the kid's subspace with data pads," he explained. "The 'Cons let his education go. He's got a lotta catchin' up to do."

"I see."

"What'd Prime say?"

"It is Warp's decision, but we have Prime's blessing to ask to be his Guardians."

Once Milestrina had finished giving her new student his textbooks, a book on basic interior decorating, and some recreational reading so that he could begin to discover his tastes in that, she set a time for his placement exams the next morning, and released him to Prowl and Jazz. She greeted them with a warm smile.

Neither were strangers to her. She and Jazz exchanged music files all the time, and Jazz was always eager to learn from her. Prowl was a voracious reader, who brought her human literature for the library that she was building, and took away Cybertronian writings that she believed he would enjoy. He had donated copies of the large library of Praxian literature which he had combed from the ruins, works which from the fall of Praxus until that moment had existed nowhere else other than his backup files. That gift had greatly endeared him to the Elder Conservator.

Milestrina told Warp, "Don't be in too great a hurry to choose an occupation. For now, concentrate on catching up with your age mates and learning as much as you can about all the different careers available to you. When you are ready to specialize, you will have a much better idea where your talents and inclinations lie."

"Thank you, Elder Conservator."

"You may be excused. I'll see you tomorrow morning for your placement exams. Good joor, Prowl, Jazz."

"Good joor, Elder," they replied. Milestrina, bestowing another of her warm smiles on all of them, excused herself and left.

Prowl asked, "Does anyone else need to see you today, Warp?"

"No, sir. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be doing."

"On the humans' clock, from retreat at 1630 hours until taps at 2000 hours will be free time for you. Nearly everyone comes to the commons in the admin building for the evening meal at least a few times an orn. Afterward, there is often a movie, or some other form of entertainment. For the first few orn, your whereabouts will be monitored, and unless you have prior permission, you will be expected to remain in the vicinity of your quarters from taps until colors the next morning at 0800 hours. 'The vicinity' includes your quarters and all common areas on that level."

"Yes, sir."

"We have some time before the evening assembly. There is a matter of importance which I would like to discuss with both of you. Shall we return to your quarters?"

"Yes, sir, that's fine."

By the time they got there, the sofa that Warp had chosen was waiting in the hall outside his room. They moved it inside, and Jazz and Prowl sat on it while Warp chose the end of his berth. "What's all this about, sir?"

"You know that, among Autobots, sparklings and younglings typically have Guardians?"

"Yes. Megatron said we were supposed to shoot them on sight, sparklings and younglings, I mean—nobot ever did, unless there was a command officer around. Even the 'Cons who were sick enough to do that knew the kid's Guardian would hunt them down and rip them into a million pieces if they did, or they'd get Mirage or, uh, you, Jazz, to do it for them. Everybot told me to miss on purpose if it ever came up."

Jazz said, "Ah won't deny that one. Ah've hunted down baby-killers before, wasn't a bit sorry for that, won't be if Ah have to do it again."

"I don't blame you," Warp said. "Like I said, they were sick. I mean, a lot of 'Cons had cracked motherboards, but Soundwave said they were a whole other level of messed up. There were a few of them on the moon he made me and his symbionts stay away from."

Prowl nodded. "He was right to do so. Warp, we Autobots maintained the custom of Guardianship. Our entire community does so as well, and as a youngling, you are entitled to a Guardian or pair of Guardians."

Warp looked at him very much askance. "What does that mean exactly? And do I have to?"

"The Guardian/Guarded protocols are a part of Cybertronian deep coding. A Guardian will protect his Guarded, regardless of the risk to himself. Guardians and Guarded are, under normal circumstances, aware of one another's location, and Guardeds have the ability to transmit a distress beacon in order to summon their Guardian if they feel threatened. Additionally, no one having active Guardian protocols is able to deliberately harm their Guarded, either by action or omission. That is the extent of the coding; however many of the city-states which chose the Autobot side had cultural obligations binding Guardians and their Guarded as well. An Autobot Guardian is responsible for providing for his Guarded's physical and emotional welfare, and in the case of a sparkling or a youngling, for the Guarded's financial support, education, and moral upbringing. While I feel that you are mature enough not to need a sparkling sitter, Prime has given permission for us, Jazz and me, to offer ourselves as your Guardians. In your case, being so near your adult upgrades, most of the requirements are merely ceremonial, but it is still good to have older bots available whose loyalty to you is beyond question, whose advice you can trust to be in your best interests. On a personal level, at some future date, should you so choose, Jazz and I would welcome your Acceptance as cohort."

A wash of emotions swept over Warp's faceplates, astonishment and fear among them. Jazz sorrowed for the latter, as did Prowl.

However, all the youngling said, after a moment, was, "May I think about it for a while?"

"Certainly. If you wish, you may also discuss it with Ratchet, or Optimus Prime, or Milestrina, or anyone else whose opinion you come to value before making a decision."

"Thank you, Prowl."

The tactician nodded. "What would you like to do for the rest of the day?"

"I was thinking I'd visit the washracks, and then you say everyone gets together in the Commons? I'd like to go if that would be all right."

Jazz said, "Ya need an escort around the base til ya get the next level of permissions. One of us will walk ya down there later on. Ping us when ye're ready."

"Thanks."

"Anything else we can tell ya at the moment?"

"No, I don't think so. I need to think, and I want to use the wash rack." He shuddered. "And the oil pool. I can't remember the last time I was really clean before Ratchet got hold of me."

"All right. See ya later." The bonded pair stood, and Warp pinged the door to let them out.

Next he made his way down the hall to the wash rack, and took a little time to explore. There was a closet with stacks of buckets, clean brushes and rags, as well as places to return used ones. He collected what he needed, and went through the sprayer before easing into the hot oil.

It relieved the soreness remaining from the fight, so he stayed in a little longer than strictly necessary.

The pressure wand could be pinged for instructions, so Warp did that, never actually having used one before. Holding it carefully, he turned it on and experimentally aimed it at a seam on his leg armor.

Getting rid of the last of the accumulated gunk and grit felt amazing: Warp felt lightened, he moved with greater ease, and his neural impulses seemed to flow better.

He watched the last of several vorn of accumulated crud circle the drain, clear water behind the small dam it created. As streamers of crud reached dirty fingers toward the drain, and first thickened, then thinned, and finally disappeared entirely, it felt like a lot of detritus from his time with the 'Cons went with it.

He turned on the air blowers and dried off.

By then it was nearly time to refuel. He went out to the common area to wait for Prowl or Jazz to pick him up, and watched the Tractorbots working on the atrium floor. Sunstreaker was working down there as well, supervising the installation of some sort of framework; Warp had no idea what it was for. It was odd to see someone that he had only thought of as a lethal frontliner working with his servos to create instead of destroy.

He had, throughout his bath, thought about the bonded pair's offer. Prowl was the Autobot's second-in-command. Having him for a Guardian would probably go a long way toward easing anyone's worries that he was still a 'Con who would murder them in their sleep or something. And (as Prowl had suggested to Prime) Warp realized he would feel a lot safer with Jazz' Guardian bonds preventing the mech from possessing him again, unless Jazz truly did believe it was the best way to protect him.

In spite of himself, he had experienced warm feelings toward Jazz during their afternoon together. Jazz was a particularly likeable bot, easy-going and not a bit pretentious.

Liking wasn't quite the same thing as trusting, though. Warp knew Jazz' reputation and, having met the bot under the circumstances that he had, thought most of it earned. He could probably trust Jazz, but he was on his own here. There was nothing wrong with a little insurance, was there?

He saw said bot come into the atrium and leaned over the railing to wave: no sense in him having to come all the way up here when Warp could meet him down there. Walking down, he was vaguely aware of a desire to warp, pain notwithstanding. But he was content, in the moment, to earn that privilege.

He might have been astonished to learn that Jazz was also content, and that he too wished to earn a privilege: Warp's trust.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Hot Rod and Bluestreak reported to Prime's office as soon as they returned from Area 51 on Tuesday evening. Jazz and Prowl occupied seats in the room, as did as Lennox and Ironhide, and Wheeljack. Both young mecha came to attention and saluted, fist to chest plates in what Lennox would have called the Roman style. Only when Optimus replied with a regal nod did they lower their servos, remaining at attention.

"Report."

Hot Rod said, "Prime. I have the list of casualties. May I transmit?"

"Do so."

Ironhide, Prowl and Jazz also stood, the armsmaster and the strategist pictures of military precision, while Jazz made a much better effort at same than usual. Wheeljack, officially a civilian, stood with his head bowed respectfully. Lennox rose as well, stood at attention.

Once the Prime had formally accepted the list of Air Force Security Forces killed and injured in the convoy ambush, and transmitted glyphs of respect and honor, he sent another glyph, putting the company at ease, and spoke those two words aloud for Lennox. Seating himself, he asked, "Has the Air Force's investigation produced any leads?"

"Yes, Prime," Hot Rod answered. "One of the civilian contractors on the project, a Kirk Lighthill, is missing. He was last seen leaving Area 51 three hours before the ambush. He knew the energon was being shipped out that day, but should not have had access to the route it was taking. It is possible that he could have gained that access, but NCIS is still investigating."

Optimus tilted his helm. "What about the dead attackers? Colonel Lennox, were you not investigating them?"

"Yes, Prime." Sarah's husband, Annabelle's and Amaranth's father, grimaced. "That is to say, I asked Director Mearing's people to look into it. In order to have pulled off the ambush, those yokels"—the commander of NEST paused as every bot there got a faraway look in the optics while they looked up the unfamiliar word—"must have had some sort of military or paramilitary background, but their prints aren't in AFIS. As of yet, we don't know if their records might have been scrubbed, or if their training came from some other source. Special Agent Simmons is heading up that investigation."

No one there missed reading the anger in Lennox' fields. Or, as another human might have put it, his aura.

Optimus' was also plain to read. He placed his servos flat on the desk in front of him. "What about the technology that stopped the trucks and disabled the humans riding inside them?"

Wheeljack said, "I have theories about that, but no facts yet to support any of them. It almost had to be something to do with the electrical system. Possibly something similar to a null-ray or the Pretenders' stunner, but neither of those would have affected the humans. With your permission, I'd like to go down to 51 and examine those vehicles for myself."

Prime nodded. "Take somebot with you, Wheeljack. We do not know of what these people, in any sense of that word, might be capable. No one should roam too far from base alone until we find out."

"Yes, Prime." The inventor wondered if Ratchet could be persuaded to take some time off; likely not, as Borealis was very close to separating one of her eggs. Perhaps he'd ask Bulkhead.

Lennox was twirling a pencil and had his brows down and together. "Optimus, one thing I'm wondering is how that joker rode right up to the back of the truck, took a gallon of energon, and rode off, all without being noticed or challenged."

Jazz fielded that one after a glance at the Prime. "Ah'm afraid they've got their hands on some kinda cloaking tech, Will, either stole ours or developed their own."

Wheeljack said, "I think the former more likely. Human technology is still vorn away from developing a reliable cloaking system, Colonel."

"Do the humans suspect Cybertronian involvement?" Prime asked Jazz.

"Internet chatter is that a missile was th' target, and 'no comment' from the military's setting off all th' right buzzwords on th' idiot blogs. Don't look like th' anti-Cybertronian groups have a clue it was about energon."

"Let us thank Primus for small favors."

Hot Rod said, "There was talk among the people at Area 51 that that the energon might have been stolen to create a bomb."

Ironhide snorted. "The scumbag didn't get away with enough to make more than the equivalent of a fertilizer car bomb, and that's assuming he knows how to enhance it to make a bomb out of it. Standard human detonators would just ignite it. No explosion."

"That's bad enough and there will be a search for him, of course, but the point is, he didn't get enough to blow a whole city off the map," Lennox said. "It's no more a danger than we already face from some Tim McVeigh wannabe."

Wheeljack nodded. "No. It's not. The larger concern, for me anyway, is what _other_ uses someone could have for energon, and other Cybertronian technology, if the cloaking device theory proves correct. The cloaking technology alone offers much greater threat than a single energon bomb. It could change the face of a human battlefield."

"If that is our technology, we will have to recover it," Optimus said, with a frown. "We cannot be responsible for its misuse in the wrong hands."

Jazz said, "Ah already scan the news an' social media for reports of strange occurrences that could be caused by our tech gettin' out. Been puttin' a priority on that ever since the Pretenders incident."

"That is all that I can ask," Optimus replied, "but if any of you have any other ideas please execute them first and then tell me you have done so." He looked around the room, saw that all of them had read the urgency he put into that request. "Is there anything else to report?"

"No, Prime," said several voices. Optimus dismissed the company, and was left alone at his desk to study a list of names, though Ironhide lingered long enough at the door to send, ::Have a bit of your time tonight, Optimus?::

::Always. What did you have in mind?::

::Blowin' some stuff up on the firin' range. It helps make sense o' life, from time to time.::

Optimus ran a servo down his faceplates. ::I would like that. This will take a lot detonation to make sense of, though.::

Ironhide sent glyphs of agreement, and closed the door behind himself.

And then the human-sized door set into the door to Optimus' quarters opened and closed. He looked down at Diarwen, and smiled.

"Bad news, _acushla_?" the Consort said, tilting her face to his.

"Nothing unexpected. Hot Rod brought me the list of humans killed and injured in the convoy raid."

The Sidhe warrior climbed to the top of his desk, and sat gracefully on an upholstered chair. "I see. May Brigit treasure their sacrifice."

Optimus stared down at his joined servos. "It rankles, Diarwen. Because the whole thing is top secret, the families of the dead will be told that they were killed in a training accident." He raised his helm to look at her. "It rankles that I cannot publicly acknowledge our debt to them."

Diarwen nodded. "I have worked for many years with the CIA and its predecessors. In the CIA headquarters in Virginia, there is a wall of stars carved into the white marble. Each represents an agent who has died in the line of duty. There is a book there, kept in a reliquary, with an entry for each of those stars, and the year that they were added to the wall. Some have names, many do not. Nothing more is required. They will be honored and remembered. It is not necessary for the world to know the nature of their sacrifice to remember it—only to know that it has been made."

"I will make a way for all to remember," Optimus said. "Inadequate, in the face of the pain it causes, but I hope that it will be enough."

Shortly, Sunstreaker set a six-foot boulder by the shared entrance to the Admin part of Cliff House, with one star incised for every human and every bot who had fallen in this system in the war against Megatron.

Not for every Cybertronian who had fallen in this war. That would require more stars than humans could see in the night sky.

There was room on this stone for more stars; Sunstreaker was a very talented designer. But Optimus prayed with his whole spark that none would be needed.

End Part Thirteen


	14. Chapter 14

Part Fourteen

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"There he is again, staring at you," Julie deMarco said, slid her eyes sideways at Sally Vanderpool, and smiled.

It wasn't a nice smile, and Sally read it correctly as a challenge to her own leadership. "Stop scowling at him," she said. "I may have a use for Minigeek."

Julie and Madison Gentry laughed; the girls stood in a tight group on one corner of the recess area. Amy Mathers, not quite a solid part of the Mean Girls as yet, joined in only when she knew the laughter was...okay to join in with.

Sally had no such reservations. If anyone declared the laughter okay, that person would be her. She debated stopping it, decided it wasn't worth the trouble.

She nodded to Raf Esquivel, but turned back to her girlfriends. Minigeek took the hint, and went to the Geek Squad, his natural affiliation, diagonally across from Sally's group.

That day at lunch, Sally said to the other three while they were in line for food, "I'm going to eat with Minigeek."

"Oooh," said Julie. "Dean's going to be jealous."

Sally tossed her head. "Dean knows all about it. He thinks it's hilarious."

The other Mean Girls exchanged glances among themselves, Madison to Julie to Amy, in descending order of seniority. Sally, who didn't have to care, said, "Later," and took her tray to Minigeek's table.

Madison smiled like the sun had come up. "Trouble's on the way," she said, "for the little kid."

Amy had not learned yet to watch her mouth sufficiently. She said what she thought: "That's mean, Sally going to eat with him. He'll think she really likes him."

The other two exchanged glances. "Yeah, and what's wrong with that?" Julie said.

"He has feelings too," Amy said.

She turned back to her lunch and studiously ignored the other two. They rolled their eyes at each other, and chorused, "Ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo."

Amy, a smart kid, realized that these girls were not all that much fun. It would be her last lunch with them. That she had shunned them was for the Mean Girls the beginning of the end, though none of them would realize this for a while yet.

Meanwhile, their leader was finding it hard going over at the geeks' table. Raf had immediately made room for her, and smiled; but he also had not terminated his part of a Sally-incomprehensible conversation. It required both hands to illustrate some concept Sally previously had not known existed, so he hadn't grabbed for her hand, either; while it would have pleased her, she would have evaded this connection. It didn't suit her plans to hold hands with a geek.

But Sally considered this implicit double-snub in the overall scheme of things. Her first impulse was always to wrap any boy around her little finger as tightly as possible, which was why her steady was not over here pounding Minigeek to a pulp. But this time, this one time, she had other fish to fry. She remained silent, only directing a smile at Raf whenever he looked at her, and not deigning to make eye contact with the other geeks at all.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Confound it!" Shad White exclaimed, as the unblinking blue screen of death stared back at him from his laptop screen.

Raf rubbed his eyes and looked up. "What's the matter, Shad?"

"It locked up again. Do you think you could take a look?"

The silence between them grew long, and Shad was about to say, "Never mind, I'll ask Chip" when Raf finally answered. "Would it be OK if I do that Saturday?"

Shad took a closer look at the smaller boy. There were dark circles under brown eyes in an otherwise pale face. "Sure, Raf, that would be fine. What are you doing there?"

"I just finished my essay for English."

"Why don't you relax and watch some TV or something? You look a little tired. I'm going to find another computer and finish my math homework."

Raf yawned. "OK, Shad."

Shad closed his laptop and went back to med-sci, where he found Chip Chase working on a screen of full of code. "Chip, do you have a minute?"

"Sure, Shad. Come on in and sit down."

Shad put his computer on the bench. "Do you think you might have time to see if you can get my laptop going again? I got the B-sod." By which he meant the aforementioned Blue Screen of Death.

"Yeah, should be able to," Chip said, eyes and mind still engaged with his code. "Did you reboot it?"

"Not yet."

"Take the battery out and let it sit for ninety seconds, then put the battery back in and see what happens."

"Yes, sir."

"Thought Raf was working on it?"

Shad's own hands were busy for a moment, then he said, "He usually helps me, sir, but I'm a little worried about him. He seems really tired, and he asked if it was OK if he did it Saturday. He knows I need it for school the rest of the week, and it's...it's not like him to forget something like that, sir. And usually, he jumps right on any work with computers. Once before he told me he couldn't get to it in time, so I should take it to someone else; but that time, he didn't forget that I needed it for school."

Chip glanced at the teen. "Tell you what, I'll mention it to his uncle. If he's stressed to the point where he's slipping, something needs to give."

"That's probably the best thing. Thanks, sir."

Shad was occupied with the computer for the time it took to narrow the problem down to some new software that was creating a conflict. Chip was busy with his own duties, but whenever Shad got stuck, he was always happy to give him a little advice or some quick instruction in something Shad hadn't learned yet. Shad located and disabled the offending program, thanked Chip, and left the engineer to his work.

The next time Chip took a break, he found Raf asleep in the teenagers' hangout, occupying half the sofa. He rolled off to find Fig, who proved to be performing some kind of equipment inspection which involved the very belly of the beast: only his boots were visible.

"Hey, Fig?" he said, and wheeled to a stop beside the machine under inspection.

"_Hola_," Fig said, rolling out from under and sitting up on his transport. "What's up?"

"I'm a little worried about Raf," Chip said. "A friend of his said Raf asked if he could help the friend with a computer problem on Saturday, instead of today. Probably don't have to tell you that's not like Raf. I had a look at him, and he's sound asleep on the sofa in the teenager's hangout. 'Course, it might not be anything, but I thought I'd give you a heads up."

Fig stood and craned his neck to take a long look at his nephew. "You're right, that isn't like him. I'll ask Ratchet to run a scan, see if he needs some vitamins or something. Thanks."

"No problem," Chip said, and rolled back to his recalcitrant code.

When Fig got off duty, he stuck his head in Ratchet's office. "May I have a moment, Ratchet?"

Optimus Prime's Chief Medical Officer raised a helm that was more than half Fig's height. "Certainly, Fig. What do you need?"

Fig sighed. "I'm a little concerned about my nephew, Raf. He declined to be involved with a computer problem earlier today, and that's not like him. Then he fell asleep watching TV and he's still napping out there. I have to wake him up and take him home to dinner. That's not like him either: he's usually going a mile a minute from first thing in the morning until lights out."

Ratchet scowled, realized his shift was over and he could do exactly as he pleased, and metaphorically looked at the pile of Pretender's exams still metaphorically on his desk. Decision made, he said, "I'll go out with you and run a few preliminary scans. But you probably know better than I do that human sparklings change so quickly from one day to the next that sometimes they need to let their bodies catch up to their growth. Both our species do that in recharge."

Fig said, "Yeah, that and they give kids so much homework any more that they're living on energy drinks younger and younger. Even a pint-size genius like Raf needs some downtime now and then to just be a little kid." He sighed, and put his hands into his pockets.

"Yes," said Ratchet, signing out of the computer, "because the child's neurological structures at that age are far from adult, even after a child reaches adult-seeming bodily development. They need good quality rest and some downtime, just as you say, for connections within the processor, brain, rather, to form properly. —I'll take a look at Raf."

"Thank you, Ratchet."

"You're quite welcome." The medic stood, which made him almost five times Jorge Figueroa's height. "Are you going to get him now?"

"Yeah. I'm just off-shift."

Ratchet put away his data pads and strolled through the commons, walking slowly to pace Fig. When the Ranger knelt by Raf's sofa and touched his shoulder, the Autobot medic scanned the boy.

Raf yawned himself awake, smiled at his uncle, and poked his feet back into his shoes—Miko routinely had a cow about people's dirty shoes being where she had to sit, so shoes on the couches were verboten. Then the boy's attention shifted to the Giant Alien Robot. "Why are you looking at me like that, Ratchet?"

"Your uncle was a little concerned about you, so he asked me to run a scan," Ratchet said. "That's all."

The child tilted his head and put the glasses he'd stuck in his shirt pocket back on. "Oh. Am I sick or something?"

"No. There are no unexpected populations of microorganisms in any of your systems. You do have elevated stress hormones, and chemical signatures consistent with physical exhaustion. To put it plainly, you're worrying too much, and you need more rest. Also, your serotonin levels are a little low, but your people have medications for that. I will notify Dr. Parker of the test results, no doubt she will prescribe something for you tomorrow."

Raf smiled, which lit up his face. "Thanks, Ratchet! That's a lot better than going to a lab and getting stuck for blood tests!"

"Hmph. I should think so." Ratchet might actually have smiled at his small patient; this rumor was never substantiated, however. "Go home, eat a good dinner, get some sleep."

"Yes, sir," Raf said, and Fig found himself wanting to echo the boy. He settled for a dignified nod, and another, "Thank you, Ratchet."

Ratchet settled for another "Hmph."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"It's about to get good," Sally said, later the next day. "The dance is coming up, and I've done exactly what I wanted to."

"What do you mean?" said Maddy.

"Look at the doorway to the science quad."

Raf Esquivel stood foursquare in that doorway, accepting the buffets as other, larger students crowded around him, neither minding nor moving. His eyes were fixed on Sally, who ignored him.

The other two turned back to her and laughed, and Sally did too. Then, most natural thing in the world, she "happened" to look up at Raf, smiled at him, and rose from her seat, tray in hand. "I'll tell you how it went later," she said, and left to meet a young boy with his heart in his eyes.

Sally had a heart too, but kept it carefully out of the transaction.

When she met her cohort again in gym class, she smiled at all of them, said, "Hook, line, and sinker."

Maddy said, "He thinks he's taking you to the dance."

Sally smiled. "He _knows_ he's taking me to the dance."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Borealis' days had settled into a comfortable rhythm since she arrived at Mission City. That comfort, however, was not enough to fill the hole in her spark.

She missed being in a trine: less "missed," actually, than "yearned after on a spark-and-coding level." As she booted up, she searched for her links to Skyquake and Dreadwing, and until she fully wakened, felt disorientation when they weren't there.

That wasn't changing as fast as she hoped it would. She didn't want them back, did not wish to reinstate the bond. But she was a Seeker, not sparked to be alone.

These days, as she wakened, her sparklings did too, and _those_ bonds grew stronger every day.

At first, it had been little more than a ping and response. Carrier was there, all was well. But as they developed, more started to come through the bond. They slept and wakened, they shifted position inside their eggs, they constantly needed reassurance that carrier was paying attention to them. They got hungry: the largest more so all the time.

Ratchet had said that was an early sign that he—the largest was a mech—was nearly ready to separate. While that was good to know, as it meant she wouldn't be as miserably egg-heavy as she was much longer, her little mechling's readiness had activated the section of her carrier coding regarding a nest.

Developing eggs required a supply of energon and temperature regulation, both supplied by the nest. Her coding held the schematics for it, and she had been gathering materials for several days. Today it was time to start.

Under ordinary circumstances, though, no carrier would be this egg-heavy: Borealis had been having trouble moving properly for some time. That was going to complicate her task tremendously.

Further, she and her trinemates would have shared the carrying and other duties, again under ordinary circumstances, both before and after separation. Many servos make light work.

One day, Borealis was going to see Strika regret the trouble she had caused. But...if the hatchlings were all healthy, she would let Strika live. If not for the would-be warlord, the small Seeker would not have her brood; therefore, much could be—well, if not forgiven, at least overlooked. Though if any harm came to her little ones, Borealis thought, both Strika's reign and her life would be short.

For Borealis, getting out of berth in the morning had become a production, not an instinctive, easy movement. She had to carefully fold in the wing on the side she wanted to roll toward, then push with the other wing until she could reach the edge of the berth, and use her arms to pull herself to the edge. Then she could swing her legs off the side, and use the resulting momentum to push herself carefully into a sitting position.

From there she had to rise slowly, allowing her navigational systems a moment to adjust to the nightly changes in her mass and center of gravity as the sparklings grew and shifted.

This morning, once she was sure of her balance, she went to the large transparent sliding door that gave onto the central common area with its seats and cactus garden surrounding the central air vent. Along one wall, a ramp led up to the sky, clear and chill this morning.

Borealis had moved in before the level was fully finished. There were enough apartments here for all the fliers on base to have their own, eventually, though all save her own were empty.

Barricade and Flareup had been here yesterday working on what would become their apartment. They would be in residence, the Tiny Trine their reason for moving, within the orn.

Would the Aerialbots live here eventually? Borealis was not quite sure what to make of them. Younger cousins, perhaps, just barely old enough not to be nuisances. For now, though, they were happy with quarters aboard Excellion.

She walked up the ramp to the clifftop and stepped off, falling only a few feet before her heel thrusters caught her, and drifted easily over to the cityformer's landing pad. He sent a glyph of greeting as he opened the hatch for her.

"Good morning, Excellion!" she replied.

"How are you today?"

"Heavy," she sighed. "The healers will separate my first egg soon."

"May I ask if that one will hatch before the others?"

"Certainly, but I will have to disappoint you. He still has to continue developing in the egg for a long while yet. But once separated he will have room to do so, and he won't crowd his siblings. I think that one is Dreadwing's, and he could very well have inherited his size from his sire."

"Can you tell which one is yours, and which Strika's?"

"Not yet. The smaller ones both have more of my coding than their other genitors'," she said, and to Excellion's amusement, preened a bit over that information. "The medics will be able to tell me more when they separate the first one."

"I see.—Perceptor is waiting for you this morning."

"Thank you. Good joor, Excellion."

"Good joor, Borealis."

She walked sedately, which was now her standard gait, through Excellion's halls, and once at the medbay door sent it a glyph. It slid aside to reveal Perceptor as well as Jazz' apprentice Sapphire, who was studying with the tiny healer this morning.

A loud clank from her midsection stopped her in her tracks. Optics bright, she put her hand to her plating. "Did you hear that? He kicked! He actually kicked!"

Borealis' excitement was contagious. "Let's get a scan!" Perceptor said, rubbing three of his servos together as he stood on the back two and indicated the scan booth with the sixth, his gossamer wings conveying extreme interest.

It was a fact of Cybertronian life that she had more language in common with this tiny Seekerkin than with grounder bots closer to her own size and configuration. Among the grounders, only Praxians still maintained the language of the air with their doorwings.

She had not been rude enough to ask if Perceptor's wings were vestigial. But it was true that until Borealis had seen him take short hops to reach surfaces designed for larger bots, or glide to the ground, she would not have thought anything so delicate capable of generating the necessary lift.

By now, she was very familiar with the scan booth. She stepped inside and raised her arms and wings, then when she was stable, nodded to the healer. Perceptor started the scan and all three watched the three-dimensional image form.

Sapphire said, "Oh, look, the littlest one's wing buds have formed since the last scan I saw!"

Borealis demanded, "Where? I can't see!"

Perceptor grinned widely as he indicated the smallest sparkling's backstrut, then pointed out the embryonic flight array. Sapphire followed his gesture with her own optics as bright as Borealis'.

"Oh. Oh my. What about the middle one? I haven't felt hir move yet, and zhe hasn't indicated hir preferred gender either."

"Zhe hasn't reached that level of development yet. I suspect that zhe will be a larger bot, but hir development is delayed due to hir brother's rapid growth. Once he is delivered, freeing more resources for hir, zhe will catch up very quickly."

"So that one is probably Strika's creation? Is zhe showing any signs of being a triple-changer? How would that affect hir development? I don't really know anything about triple-changer sparklings."

Both Sapphire and Perceptor peered intently at the display. "There isn't enough detail in the embryonic t-cog array yet to tell," the microscope, whose experience was far greater than that of the apprentice, said, turning back to Borealis. "Perhaps, if hir third form affects hir root mode, we may start to see indications of that in the protoform. Some triple-changers never discover the talent until well into their adult phase, though. Or, theoretically, at all. If their root and primary alt modes are very well suited to their function in life, they might never have occasion to discover the third mode." Perceptor glanced at Jazz' apprentice. "We are nothing as a species if not diverse. No matter how well we understand our frames, I think Primus will always have a few surprises for us."

"But zhe is healthy?"

"All of you are fine," Perceptor said, with precisely sufficient firmness to reassure a carrier. "I'm going to consult with Ratchet, but I'm fairly certain that we are going to be delivering your little mechling within the orn. How long will it take you to construct your nest?"

"Not long, but I need help," she said.

"I'll have someone assigned. Shall I just tell them to go on up?" The tiny healer smiled, sharing Borealis' own excitement, as he put the scanning equipment to rights.

"Please do. I'm going to get started on it right away."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The Wreckers joined the Tractorbots and Excellion's work crews in gathering around an energon dispenser, checking the assignment board, gossiping, sniping verbally at one another, and collecting work tickets for the day.

Perceptor's request arrived at about the same time the last of them sauntered in; the latecomer happened to be Leadfoot. Roadbuster, as clan leader, assigned the requests; he handed that slip to Tracer, a bot from Excellion.

But then Hot Rod spoke up. "Let me do that one, OK?"

The room filled with hoots and catcalls. Leadfoot grinned from audial to audial. "She's way outta your league, kid!"

Rodi felt the teachings Optimus had given him kick in. "She might be, but I'll hear that from her before I believe it."

"OOOoooOOOoo," said several different species of sarcasm, all of them backed with real affection for this kid.

This kid who, not too far beyond his own sparklinghood, sat next to the bottom in the Wrecker's hierarchy, and was the youngest within it. But it was he among them who would someday become a leader of his people.

OOOoooOOOooo, the Wreckers might have replied, in unison. But they also, to a bot, would have died under torture before they told _anybot_ how proud they were that this one of theirs was a Prime candidate.

Roadie looked at the ticket's original owner, and raised a questioning browplate. Tracer smirked and nodded. "Far be it from me to stand in the way of true luuuurve."

It took that to set Hot Rod's faceplates aflame to match his paint job, but he nodded his thanks to Tracer, and accepted the ticket.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

By the time Hot Rod arrived at Borealis' door, Borealis was already tired. Arcee, who had been helping her accumulate and sort materials, got up to answer the door.

Borealis remained in what Ratchet, without hesitation, would have labeled a "nesting fugue," picking over the materials, discarding this and saving that, according to some internal principles known only to her. She wasn't really paying much attention when suddenly her space was filled with a Wrecker. It took only one to do that, which several other bots on base could attest to.

"Good joor," Rodi said, with his easy grin. "I'm here to help you build a nest."

"Oh." Borealis blinked at him. "I really didn't think..." _that they'd send a Prime candidate_.

Rodi said, stiffly, "Look, if I make you uncomfortable, someone else can do it."

"Oh no, it's not that," Borealis said, and Arcee smiled and half-turned away, keeping both audials pinned on the action, just as Rodi glanced at her. "I'm happy to have your help. I just—I thought I'd have a day or two more to potter. But no, this is best."

Rodi's cables lost some tension. "Do you have plans for me to work from?"

"They're just sketches, really," Borealis said, and sent him the file.

But looking through them, Rodi realized they were far more than sketches. He would not learn this for some time yet, but Seeker and Wrecker coding both derived from the same lines of base coding. That commonality meant that Borealis' "sketches" made all kinds of sense to him. He even understood the need for temperature and airflow regulation. Almost.

"What temperatures do the little ones need to be kept at?" he asked, and she told him in depth and in detail.

"All right. How about airflow? And the energon supply has to be matched to their absorption rate, right?"

"How did you know that?" Borealis said, tilting her helm up to him from her chair.

"Uh, well, the flow rates are modified by the 'variable' glyph, but everything else is constant. So the eggs have to be supplying that variable," said Rodi, who over his few vorn had seen his share of plans.

Borealis smiled. "That's exactly right. Who else have you done this for, Rodi? What other Seekers?"

"Uh, well, none. By the time I was old enough to apprentice, the war was pretty well underway, and all the Seekers had followed Starscream to Megatron." He sent Arcee a list of supplies. "Can you get these, Arcee, or would you like help?"

"Oh, sure," Arcee said, "not a problem. Look, will you set up pings for Borealis' meds for yourself? If that's all right with you, Borealis? I might not get back in time."

The gravid Seeker nodded.

Arcee went on, "You never know with quartermasters. Sometimes," she said, wrinkling up her olfactor plates, "they want to _talk_."

Rodi laughed. "Sometimes, they do. If you can get the first page's worth of supplies here, I can start today, and then finish tomorrow."

"Do my best," Arcee said, and shut the door carefully behind her.

If she did this right, she thought, she could make three trips to the quartermaster, and if that didn't give those two time enough for some _serious_ talk, she would...she didn't know.

Well, she wouldn't, probably. It was Arcee's hope that Borealis would settle into a full life at Mission City, and that Rodi was interested, had been since she landed, she viewed as very positive. She _wanted_ Borealis here, and happy. She felt herself to be on the side of the young Seeker.

Yes, Arcee thought with satisfaction, Rodi was shaping up very nicely. And that he was a Prime candidate was icing on the cake. If a Prime Consort were one day this Seeker, that could go a very, very long way toward healing the rift between the Primes and the Seekers which Starscream had torn open with his very own talons.

And that, of course, the soldier part of her added, would mean that Prime's forces were strengthened in the air. Nothing against the Aerialbots, of course, but they were only five in number. It would be many vorn before the Tiny Trine were ready to even _think_ about fighting.

Arcee transformed and sped away in the direction of the quartermasters, her life about as full of metaphorical energon goodies as it could hold.

End Part Fourteen


	15. Chapter 15

Part Fifteen

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Rodi, on his knees in front of Borealis' chair in her quarters, was having a technical discussion with her.

"So when those sparklings came with us on Excellion and we built a creche for them, we were careful to ensure that all of the angles within it were rounded. It meant that while their plating was still soft, the sparklings couldn't ding themselves very easily."

"You mean the littlest ones from Tyger Pax? Not the Aerialbots?"

"Not the Aerialbots. They were good sized younglings by then, and even the Protectobots were into their youngling frames, though only just. I mean the littlest ones."

"They were all grounders, so that simplifies things...we'll have to do essentially the same thing in here, but all the way up, not just at ground level. Were you here to sparkling-proof Barricade's quarters?"

"No, that was already done when we got here."

Borealis suggested, "You might want to ask him to show you what they did. Little Seekers learn to fly right away. No thrusters, of course, when they're newly hatched, but they can generate enough lift with their wings alone to get into plenty of mischief. We're curious by nature; our deepest coding is designed to explore for energon, after all. We'll have to sparkling-proof the entire quarters, especially anything up around the ceiling and places they'll try to perch. The little ones often take a tumble when they come in for a landing, so those places will have to be padded."

Rodi nodded, and cast an assessing eye around the bare apartment. "What was it like growing up as a Seeker?"

"I'm not sure what to compare it to. I've never been around grounder sparklings to know what's different. We're exposed to a lot of flying activities, of course. It's always best to satisfy a sparkling's sky hunger in a controlled, safe way."

"That makes all kinds of sense. Poor little Skysong."

"I know. The grounders did the best they could for her, but there's just no way they could know how strong the dominance instinct is with us. We need to know our place in the wing. They couldn't have known her programming would be triggered by what she thought was another Seekerlet flying below her. I understand it was a human who saved her?"

"Yes, indirectly. The mech, man, I mean, who gets around in a wheeled chair?"

"I've seen him, but haven't met him. Haven't really met any of the humans, although I did talk to one about meeting your offspring's needs; this femme has a child who is very different from most other human children, and she said that the biggest problem was learning to think about her child's issues correctly. So how did this person in a chair come to understand Skysong's problems?"

Rodi pulled up some files. "As I understand it, he didn't, really, but he suggested a new way of thinking about them to Ratchet. Ratchet wouldn't have thought to build Skysong an external flying frame, young as she is."

"No," Borealis said thoughtfully, "I don't think I would have on his peds, either. What's interesting about that trine is that I've watched them fly, and they can't settle the hierarchy-in-the-air for themselves so long as Skysong is in a frame."

Rodi's servos were busy among the nesting materials, and he did not take his eyes off them to reply, "Does that have to be done in the air? They certainly seem to squabble a good deal on the ground."

"Our coding demands that certain things be done in certain ways. Doubtlessly, the grounded squabbling helps pacify their coding for a while, but it won't stop until they're able to settle it in the air."

"That sounds almost exactly like the Wreckers' Contest," Rodi replied. "It's like an itch under your plating that you just can't reach to scratch when there's another bot with you and you don't know who's higher on the ladder."'

"Oh," Borealis said in surprise. "Yes, that does sound similar. We settle our hierarchy for safe formation flying. Why do you settle yours?"

Rodi explained about sudden death being a usual component of Wrecker work, and the need for clear succession of leadership should the worst befall a Wrecker leader, "which it did on Cyberton pretty often. They're the leader, so they're the first into any new place." With his eyes on his busy servos, he failed to see Borealis' browplates elevate, and of course he couldn't perceive her estimation of him, of all the Wreckers, shoot up.

Arcee knocked, and entered. "Hey," she said casually, and unsubspaced the first load of supplies. "I didn't realize there would be so much," she said. "I've got to make another trip, maybe two."

"Okay," Rodi said. "Just work straight down the page, okay? And if something's really too big for you, let me know, and I'll get it."

"Will do," Arcee said, but she knew she wouldn't. She'd probably bully the other Wreckers into bringing it.

As the door closed behind her, Rodi asked Borealis, "Where do you want the nest itself?"

"I'd prefer it to be right under the skylight, so I can see out and the hatchlings can too once they're out of their eggs. But, I've heard about rain: water coming out of the sky. Are you sure that skylight won't leak?"

"Yes, ma'am. We water-tested all these skylights, shut off the drains and filled them up to the top. They will not leak if you make sure the skylight has a positive seal every time you close the window. You might want to open it for ventilation, since the aeries don't have the insulation that the apartments on the lower floors do, and it might get a little warmer up here during the hottest part of summer. So, if the positive seal light doesn't come on the control panel, you'll have to either check or have someone else check to find out what's wrong with it."

She cocked her helm to one side; with Rodi sitting cross-legged on the floor and Borealis seated conventionally in her very comfortable rocker, he was still a bit taller than she. "Will it get really hot up here?"

"It shouldn't be anywhere near as bad as those Quonset huts, and there's a ventilation system that pulls cool air up from the lower levels if it does get too warm. But you might need to vent hot air through the skylight if a layer collects on the ceiling. Ordinarily it would exit through a window or the door."

"You know a lot about building things, don't you?"

Rodi grinned. "I've learned some from working around the Tractorbots. But mostly I've torn down old construction, which teaches you how it's put together, so it's not too hard to reverse-engineer.

"And speaking of building things, I've got an idea I'd like to run past you, if you don't mind. I'd like to build you a safety ladder to get to the rim of the nest, and ped and servo holds to climb down once you're inside. For one thing, when you first get home after separation, you might not be that steady. And for another, if the grounder medics can get in and out to check the eggs easier, it will be that much safer for everybody."

Borealis smiled, "That's very thoughtful, Rodi. How do you want to do that?"

He transmitted a diagram. "Do you want the entrance to the nest to face the door as you come through it?"

"I think so, yes."

"Then let me lay out some of the supports, and we'll see how it looks. We want you to still be able to get around the nest without tripping over anything. Will you recharge in the nest as long as you need it?"

"Probably. We can put my berth in storage once the nest is finished. That will give us more floor space in that corner."

"Don't want to crowd the wash rack door, either. With sparklings, you'll be using a lot of solvent."

Borealis watched with interest as he laid out the base of the nest and occasionally made a chalk mark on the floor plates. Something that had existed only as pixels began to take shape.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Rodi got the midafternoon meds for Borealis, and wondered where Arcee had gotten to. (About three-quarters of the way through loading the next round of supplies, plus associated chat. Arcee was thinking guiltily she'd best get back.)

Borealis knocked back the pills, sighed, and said, "I need to lie down for a while. Will you come and talk to me?"

"Uh, sure." The tall flame-decked bot gestured at what they were doing as he rose. "Can I take some of this handwork in with me?"

"Thank you, Rodi, that would be wonderful. Can you help me up?"

"Sure. You need any help getting into the berth?" He heard how that sounded, and abruptly radiated all the cooling fluid he could spare into his cheekplates. "Er, I mean..."

Borealis laughed, though not at him. "I understood what you meant. No, it hasn't quite gotten that bad yet. But thanks for the offer." _And thank you for letting me know I might be gravid out to _there_ but I'm still attractive._

-Sidhe Chronicles-

By the time Arcee got back, Borealis felt rested enough to get up, and had accepted Rodi's help in undertaking that monumental task. Arcee missed by several minutes the instant when, set on her feet and still held in Rodi's servos, Borealis smiled up at him.

She did get back in time to hear Borealis, reseated in her chair, say, "Grounders get upset when they see us allowing our sparklings to work out the pecking order on their own, but that's what needs to happen to satisfy our coding. We only intervene if they get too rambunctious and it looks like somebot will really be damaged. Arcee! Hello."

Rodi smiled at both the femmes, and said, "Hey, Arcee.—That sounds like us Wreckers. When I was a sparkling and we got into it, they'd sling us into a safe room and let us have it out, almost like a mini-Contest. Same programming, bitty bots without enough good sense yet to hold back."

Borealis giggled at the thought of sparkling-Hot Rod tumbling around wrestling with the other mini-Wreckers. "I wonder if there might be some video floating around."

"Nope, none at all! No sense to even look!" Rodi said briskly, and abruptly began to sort more materials.

Borealis, of course, made a note to give that a thorough reality check once she had the energy to do so. She surprised herself with her eagerness to see what this fellow had looked like as a sparkling.

Arcee considered it, but thought she'd let Borealis have that one, and share the victory if she felt like it. She hoped the young Seeker would.

Borealis cleared some space at the table to check out the thermostat that Arcee unsubspaced. No one had supplies specifically for Seekers, but this was a top-of-the-line programmable human-made one; the brand name, appropriately, was "Nest." She thought that it should be adequate within the temperature-controlled environs of the Cliff House. More cooling than heating would be required, since an egg tended to hold heat.

She had decided, among the options available to her, to circulate oil through a heating and cooling unit; the human term was "heat pump." Ratchet and Wheeljack promised it for later today. On delivery it would fall to Rodi to ensure that oil lines ran from the pump to surround the eggs, and then returned to the heat pump.

Oil leakage would be harmless to the sparklings. Potentially harmful substances were confined to the heat pump itself, which would be located at a distance from the nest.

If Borealis did not survive separation, a possibility she accepted, or some other accident befell her, she wanted the grounders to have no trouble caring for her eggs until they hatched. Therefore, she and Rodi were arguing through the design of her nest.

She said as much to Rodi, who, to her surprise, got up to stand beside her at the table, and put one hand under her elbow. She half-turned to him, brow plates raised, but hastily shut off the "What are you _doing_, grounder?" that rose unbidden to her vocalizer.

Optics intent and fastened to hers, Rodi said, "Wait a minute. First off, you're not going to die. Ratchet and Perceptor are the best there are. You might end up in a hundred pieces in the medbay and it might hurt like the Pit to get you put back together, but they will keep your spark and processor going and you'll walk out of there."

She half-smiled. "You know, you're not very reassuring."

"I'm sorry, but it's the truth. It isn't like you're going to explode or anything. And I've seen Perceptor put mecha back together after they _did_ explode. Wrecker, remember?"

"How could I forget?"

"You're gonna live, OK?"

Borealis believed him. There were a few hundred ways she could be permanently disabled, and yes, she could die. But the odds were far better that she would survive, even with permanent damage to her gestation tank and surrounding structures. "I do not want to think about the whole 'scattered around the medbay in a hundred pieces' thing, but now, thanks to you, I have that image in memory."

He still towered over her, optics locked onto her own, big servo fastened with surprising gentleness to her elbow. "It isn't the kibble that falls off that matters. You can replace all that."

She shook her helm, smiling in spite of herself. "Wrecker."

"Yes, ma'am," Rodi said. A smile drifted across his faceplates, and he went back to his plans.

Arcee had throughout kept her optics on what she was doing, and could now return all of her attention to it. But she was pleased.

Hot Rod grinned at Borealis from a table-width away. "OK, break it down for me again. What exactly does the nest need to do beyond temperature control? I think we've got that taken care of."

Borealis nodded. "It must also provide sparkling-grade energon at the proper pressure for the eggs to absorb. If necessary, I can tie into the system myself and filter energon for them. But I would like to have a backup system available in case it is needed. A long recovery from carrying could be disastrous for the eggs if there isn't a substitute available."

"So we need to build a filtration system. Send your design and your specs for that to Wheeljack and have him look it over. That's above my level; I haven't had much to do with some of the technical fluid dynamics stuff yet. If there are any problems, he'll tell you what you need to do to correct them. Delivering it at the proper flow rate is really not that difficult; could be as simple as a reservoir with a float valve and a mechanism to restrict the line if it's coming in too fast. But sometimes the way the lines are designed can do unexpected things when you put liquid in them. Also...let's build three separate energon systems, in case they need different additives."

"That's good thinking." She updated the plans accordingly. One storage tank for the base energon, kept like the heat pump separate from the nest, separate reservoirs where any needed additives could be introduced, and separate flow-control systems.

Rodi frowned. "What about exhaust and sludge removal?"

"Exhaust is released through small ports in the shell, and the air circulation system keeps it from building up. What little sludge they make is contained in the egg until they hatch. It's disposed of with the egg components that the hatchlings don't consume."

"They consume their eggshells?"

"Euuw gross" was right there to be read on Rodi's faceplates, but Borealis bypassed that to teach. "Of course. A lot of raw materials go into constructing an egg. Many can be recycled by the hatchlings. Seekers are highly efficient mechanisms. We waste very little."

"Seems kind of gross to me. Sorry, but...eggshells. Kind of like eating your own discarded plating."

Borealis smirked, and did not tell him that such was not at all uncommon for Seekers on long energon hunting missions. Privation had taught the grounders the necessity of recycling, but they tended to leave spare bits with the medics, then later pointedly did not ask where replacements came from. After that "hundred pieces" remark, she was rather pleased to have returned the favor of a squick.

"Beyond that, the nest needs to be strong enough to protect the eggs, yet pliant enough inside to cushion them and allow them to roll slightly as the sparklings move around inside them. It isn't good for the same area of eggshell to always be in contact with the nest.

"Also, it needs to be suitable for me to rest there for extended periods."

Rodi tilted his helm and met her eyes. "Several layers of mesh? Different meshes, I expect."

"That's probably the best we can do here. Back home we used to extrude a metallic foam that was strong, but had just the right amount of give. I don't imagine we can get the materials for that here."

"I'll ask Jackie. Might surprise you. But I'll also put the word out to see who has meshes they aren't using right now. There are people on Excellion who know how to weave them, if we need more."

Borealis nodded decisively; they moved away from each other, but kept eye contact. (Far more interesting than plans and schematics.) "I already have the fans I need for air circulation. Those, the pumps, and the mesh are what my coding demands. Once those three are in place, we have some leeway of design."

Rodi smiled. He was very happy to let Borealis do the design work; that wasn't really part of Wrecker coding, and most Wreckers didn't have well-developed taste for anything but their energon. Yes, this would work out very well indeed.

The rest of the nest-construction went smoothly, running without glitch upon the lines Rodi and Borealis had laid out for it.

Arcee remained pleased with her observations, as well.

Rodi was somewhat _dis_pleased to have no further opportunities to hold Borealis in his arms; so, to her own surprise, was Borealis.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Will Lennox said, "I asked to speak to all of you because spring break is coming up."

He could have told you who would say, "Yeah!" and punch the air, and who only grin and say "Yeah," and who would only grin. Those three groups were ranked in descending order of will and ability to make trouble.

He said, "The rules are simple, but there are rules. The one you don't break is that if you leave base as a group, while you are in Mission City, or Tranquility, or _especially_ Las Vegas proper, you do not, under any circumstance, break up that group. Are we clear?"

Predictably, one of the kids he wouldn't have in his outfit as a precious gift raised a hand and said, "Sir, what if—"

Will Lennox, normally a very polite fellow, interrupted. "There is no 'what if.' There is _no circumstance_ outside of hospitalization in which the group is splintered. And if somebody _is_ hospitalized, one member of the group takes it upon him- or herself to call base _immediately_. If you break either of these rules, every member of the group in question, except maybe the person who got hospitalized though I'm not guaranteeing that, is confined to base until they are of legal age in Nevada. That is nineteen. Got it?"

The hard cases took a look at his face and decided they got it. Everybody else just said, "Yes sir."

Fine by him. He went over the rest of the rules, mostly common sense along the lines of "Do not assume that just being in the same mall together is being together as a group. Being together means remaining in eye or vocal contact," and when he finished, smiled. "Great. Have a good break, all of you, and stay safe. Dismissed."

Even civilians knew what that meant. They scrammed.

Predictably, he got a text from Jack Darby, asking some very good questions. He answered them, told the boy, young man rather, that when he was in a group, he was to view himself as its leader. Will also suggested that he appoint Shad White his second-in-command, and Evanon his third.

When Jack replied, "Yes sir. They've accepted," Will relaxed a bit.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Evanon's cell phone beeped at him, and he abruptly abandoned the math homework that gave him so much trouble, even with help from Shad White and Shad's friend Leah.

Evanon was far from stupid, but mathematics was a way of thinking he had never had to master in the Underhill, beyond being able to count change. Evanon could, and did, accomplish three years' worth of schoolwork in one (this in a newly-acquired language which had very little in common with his first tongue), but that left him far behind his peers. Math beyond arithmetic, being totally unknown to him, was the subject which required most work.

He sent a text and grinned at Chromia. "That was Jason. They checked into the campground in Tranquility. He wants to know if he can come up."

Chromia turned from her own work—more translations for the Prime Consort—and said, "Certainly. Will his parents bring him or does he need a ride?"

"He has his bike."

"Remind him to take plenty of water," Chromia cautioned. "And tell him to text again when he leaves, so we'll know if he's running late."

Evanon passed these cautions on to Jason, a city kid who might very well underestimate how much water he would need while riding a bicycle in the desert, then started texting the rest of the kids. Now that Jason was here, spring break could officially get underway.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Mr. Najantdahl grinned as a laughing, shouting pack of teenagers stood their bikes against the front windows of the store between the signs advertising soda, cigarettes, and the weekly special—bologna this time. He knew them all by name now, these Army brats from the base across the highway. Jack Darby, the oldest and the one who seemed the group's natural leader, pushed the door open and stepped inside. He was quickly followed by Shad White, Evanon Hyde, and Junior Epps, with the Japanese exchange student, Nakadai Miko, and the youngest of the usual crowd, Raf Esquivel, close behind. Miko waved and shouted, "Hi, Mr. Najantdahl!"

"Hello, Miss Nakadai. Welcome, all of you."

The kids descended on the shelves, collecting armloads of chips, jerky sticks, and a sensible amount of water, soda and juice. Mr. Najantdahl stayed behind his counter, relaxed; he did not need to keep a very close eye on them as they hit the candy shelves, as he would have done for children not from the base who patronized his store. This group could be trusted, though there were a few others from the base he also gave no opportunity to steal from him. A few moments later another boy entered, a stranger to Mr. Najantdahl, to be loudly and happily welcomed by the rest of the crowd, especially the Hyde boy.

This new young man picked out a few things that he seemed to recognize, then examined the labels of brands not generally found on the East Coast. "You don't have Mexican soda, do you, sir?"

"Yes, top shelf."

Miko asked, "What's so special about Mexican soda?"

"It doesn't have as many fake ingredients. I'm allergic to a lot of stuff, but not sugar, or I'd be out of luck there too. Oh, good, he's got orange!" Jason pulled two bottles out of the cooler quickly and shut the door.

They formed a messy, boisterous line at the counter, where most of them picked a candy bar from the display. Mr. Najantdahl discreetly directed the new boy's attention to the ingredient label on his wife's homemade fudge and a cooler with apples and oranges in it. The lad quickly added an apple and a square of fudge to his loot.

Mr. Najantdahl always felt bad for that one kid in every group who was on a special diet, and had to make do with a package of nuts or cheese and crackers while the rest of the crowd stocked up on goodies. Usually it was sugar that gave them problems, and for those kids he kept several kinds of sugar free candy. But having noticed Ms. ni Gilthanel picking out things that did not have a lot of artificial ingredients, he had started getting fruit and a few organic items in as well. He had sufficient health-conscious customers, mostly people who lived on base, that he had no trouble selling them.

While money changed hands, Jack Darby noticed a few pictures of the old Tranquility Drive-In hanging on a corkboard behind the counter. "Sir, I noticed the other day that the for-sale sign on the drive-in was gone. Did you buy it?"

Mr. Najantdahl cocked his head to one side. "Yes, I did. I plan to open it again. I think it will attract tourists, and I hope that the Cybertronians can enjoy it as well."

"That's a great idea!" Miko grinned. "It's something we can all do. They never get to watch first-run movies."

"Would any of you be interested in a job one day next week? I need to have all the tumbleweeds and trash cleaned out, so the people can come in to work on it."

All of them were interested in picking up a little extra spending money for their break, and Jack was sure that some of the younger bots would be interested as well, once he explained to them what a drive-in was.

When the last purchase was completed, the teenagers trooped outside and took off riding their bikes toward Tranquility. Mr. Najantdahl grinned and shook his head, then made a circuit of the store to see if anything needed to be restocked.

End Part Fifteen


	16. Chapter 16

Part Sixteen

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The base lay ten miles from Tranquility, which was a good thing for security reasons, but not so much for bike travel. The highway shoulder was completely without shade, and even when a car blasted by, it only stirred up hot air.

Jack Darby took the six, last in line: where he could keep his eyes on the younger kids.

Shad and Evanon really didn't need to be watched more than did anyone in the harsh environment of the Mojave Desert.

Miko and Junior were more likely to do something dangerously impetuous. Or impetuous and, in retrospect, dumb, Jack thought, forgetting his own excursions into "dumb" four years gone.

Raf didn't like being too far from the group, and outside of checking in on him from time to time, making sure he drank enough water by having a swallow with him, Jack kept a looser eye on the younger boy.

And smiled at a memory. Raf had told him that morning when he picked him and Junior up that he was searching for his mother. He'd found her social security number, and was working at tracing her through it. Jack had been taken aback at that; his mother had been a constant in his life. He'd not known what to say to Raf other than, "That's great!" but that seemed to be enough.

Jack didn't know Jason well enough to say how mature the Sidhe youth was. However, from the many coats of paint and tape on his bike frame, and his dietary requirements, Jack figured Jason's life as a changeling had only reduced the severity of his problems with iron and chemicals, not eliminated them entirely; reason enough to be aware of his situation.

Ironhide would have approved of all these measures, but Jack wasn't thinking of that.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Once in Tranquility, Jason led them a block over to get off the main drag. Jack coasted around the corner and returned some redneck's one-finger salute with a paint-blistering scowl. Yelling "Asshole!" at him, even if perfectly true and accurate, wouldn't do anything to convince him that bikes had as much right to the road as he did.

Their route took them behind the school campus and down an alley, into a gravel lot behind a two-bay garage. Both bay doors were open, and within, Jason's parents talked to a man and a young woman; another woman, in not-quite-business attire, stood at the periphery of the group. Jack didn't know the man, but the younger woman was Mikaela Banes.

While the smaller kids spread out to explore the dirty garage, Mikaela came over to say hello to Jack.

He asked, "What's going on?"

Her expression resolutely neutral, Mikaela said, "Optimus told me Dad was selling his garage to the Brierlys. The Big Bot thought it would be a good idea if I came over to check things out and make sure there are no...complications. Dad's decided to go back to San Diego."

"That's...good, isn't it?"

Mikaela nodded, but Jack wasn't sure how she felt, couldn't read her. He knew what everyone knew, that Mikaela and her dad weren't close, that she had broken most ties with him after he had landed her in juvie by getting her mixed up in grand theft auto, and that her record had been expunged because of her actions during the battle of Mission City five years earlier.

Jack looked past her to Mr. Banes, Mr. Brierly, Mrs. Brierly, and the other woman, miniskirted and carrying a briefcase, who had to be the real estate agent. Their heads were together, their expressions intent. That discussion would go on for a while.

"C'mon," Jack said to the others. "Let's head to the mall."

Mikaela declined to accompany them; still on the lookout to minimize Dad-damage, Jack thought. They bid the young engineer a friendly farewell, and zipped off.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The mall, this first day of vacation, was packed. Junior, Raf, and Jack all had reasons to hit the bookstores; Miko said that if she could look at the magazines and the fiction while they did whatever they were doing, that was fine with her. Raf said he'd stick with Jack; Junior and Miko went to peruse manga, while Evanon and Jason disappeared in the direction of the martial arts magazines. From there, if Evanon followed his usual habits, they would make a beeline for the music section.

Jack said, "I'm going to look at SAT prep books, you know."

Raf's small face lit up. "Really? I've always been curious about those."

They spent a comfortable twenty minutes in that section, after which Jack made his choice. "You're not going to buy one?" Jack teased Raf.

To his amusement, Raf said, "I don't think so. If you're having trouble in math I can probably give you some help if you'd like, Jack."

Jack looked down at his book. "I may have to reconsider this," he said.

"Uh, maybe. I haven't really gotten very far into calculus yet. Just enough for statistics."

Jack rolled his eyes. "You're thirteen. 'Just enough for statistics'? You shouldn't know statistics even _exist_ yet!"

Raf blushed. "Can't help it. Numbers interest me."

"I know, I know. You know what interests me? History. I hate having to memorize the dates but it's interesting to put things together. This couldn't have happened unless that happened first. You see?"

"I understand. That's a mathematical relationship in a way, also." The younger boy fell silent as they walked toward the music section, and stopped. "Jack, can I...can I ask you for some advice?"

"Yeah, so long as you're cool that I may have to say, 'Ask your uncle.'"

"I already did, but he's been married a long time, and he may have forgotten some important stuff."

Fig and Stefania, who were in it for the longest possible haul, would have been amused that fifteen years constituted "a long time," but then their marriage _was_ two years older than Raf himself.

Jack was amused too. "Okay, what's the question?"

"I'm going to the spring dance with Sally Vanderpool, and—"

"Vanderpool? _That_ Vanderpool? The Miss Tween Tranquility Vanderpool? The furniture store Vanderpool?"

Raf shrugged. "I guess so."

"You don't know?"

Raf put his hands in his pockets. "It's not important to me, so I don't care. I know she's got a lot of money. She wears diamonds in her ears."

"Real diamonds? A lot of women do that. My mom, for instance."

"But your mom is a grown-up with a good job."

"True. So let's say your Sally's one of those Vanderpools. Congratulations, Raf."

Raf flushed to the roots of his hair. "Yeah, well. I don't like her because she's rich; I like her because she's her. She's perfect, you know?"

Jack smiled down at the younger boy. "Yeah, I do know. I remember my first crush. We still write each other letters once in a while."

"You didn't get married?"

"Uh, we were a little too young for that, Raf."

"How old?"

"We were both twelve."

"Oh." Rah looked downcast.

Jack hastened to add, "Raf, the legal age for marriage in a lot of states is eighteen, and—"

"Eighteen! That's five years from now!"

"Whoa, tiger. In five years a lot of things about you, and about her, will change. And the adults tell me that we don't really ever stop changing, but the youngest you should be making any lasting decisions is eighteen. But you know, the brain doesn't reach full maturity until twenty-five. And I can feel that. I mean, I was thirteen just four years ago, but I know I'm a different person now."

Raf digested this in silence. Then he said, slowly, "I guess I'm going a little too fast to be thinking about marrying her."

"Maybe. If she's the right one, she'll still be the right one in five years."

That took some more thinking, but Raf felt able to do it on his feet. They moved on toward the music area.

"Jack, I need some advice on what you do with a girl when you take her to a dance."

Jack pondered; such activity had not been a large part of his life. "Well, you like her, and she likes you. A dance, where you're really close to each other, is a good place to tell her that you like her, and to hold her hand, which you get to do when you're dancing anyway." He slid his eyes across to the boy. "Miko and I are going out to dinner on Friday night. Want a lift?"

"Oh, would you, Jack? I can give you some gas money."

"Okay. We'll call it two bucks, since it's not that far to drop you guys off. You've got my number, and you can call me when you want to go home."

"Thanks, Jack. Thanks for the advice, too. My uncle even took me to get a suit for the dance!"

Jack grinned at the smaller boy's enthusiasm, and Raf scooted on ahead to find the music lovers.

Evanon and Jason had a proposition. After browsing transcriptions and songbooks, they had found a posting of a Celtic harp for sale. Evanon wanted one, and it did not take him and Jason together long to persuade the others that an expedition off the beaten track was a good idea.

Off far enough to be on the wrong side of that track, which Evanon's address was? Maybe not so good an idea. But they were strangers to Tranquility, and didn't know that.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The house the handwritten posting directed them to was small and shabby, tract housing built cheaply in the seventies, now in need of more maintenance than it was worth. In late spring, when lawns normally greened around Las Vegas, this place had only a discouraged straggle of brown weeds in the front yard, and several years of accumulated grime, it looked like, on the windows.

Its neighborhood was equally down at the heels.

"Eww," said Miko, wrinkling up her nose. "I don't want to go in there."

Jack was perplexed, Raf looking up at him (and, he was painfully aware, _to _him) from his side. "Then here's what we'll do. Evanon, if you don't mind, I'll hold your money. Jason, you're going in with him, I expect, so it might not be a bad idea if I did that with yours as well."

They did that little thing, and Jack sent each of them an email receipt. Then he said, "One other thing. Call me, and leave the line open. I want to hear what's going on in there. Okay?"

Evanon dialed his number, and the changelings knocked on the battered front door.

The man who opened it was scraggly, scrawny, and ill-kempt. "What kin ah do fer ya?" he said, his expression unfriendly, and his wife-beater snagged, stretched, holey around the pits, and not all that clean.

The smell that strode out the door to meet the boys wasn't all his, either. Evanon said, "Someone here advertised a harp for sale?"

"Ain't me, might be one'a my roomies. Hang on a minute; c'mon inside if you wanna."

The boys exchanged glances and decided why not.

The floors had not known the kiss of vacuum cleaner or mop for an extended period of time. Beer bottles littered a coffee table set in front of a gigantic flat-screen TV. Five recliners of random color and style, armrests and headrests filthy fabric or greasy naughahyde, worshipped the screen like a semicircle of hippie acolytes. Each recliner had a side table covered in ashtrays and cigarette butts.

Shaped like cigarette butts, anyway. Sort of. The ends were peculiarly pinched.

"Have a seat if you want," their host said. Neither boy took him up on that.

He turned to shout, "Hey! Billy! You know if anybody's gotta harp for sale in the house?"

"Be Ed if it was anybody," said a disembodied voice from the kitchen.

Their host hitched a pair of pants up around skinny hips and barefooted his way up a sagging staircase. "Yo! Eddy! You home?" His clenched fist thundered against a bedroom door, which creaked open perhaps a half-inch. A rough voice from inside it said, "Chuwan'?"

"You gotta harp for sale?"

"Harp? Nah, man, no money in those things. Get 'em new for ten bucks."

"Excuse me," Evanon said politely. "It is not a harmonica, but a Celtic lap harp."

Eddy stuck a head which was markedly less attractive than their host's around the door frame. A certain looseness about mouth and eyes...hair that reflected a permanent lack of discipline. What was left of it, anyway, a greasy gray fringe that had ebbed back from his forehead to hang over his shoulders, and matched the gray fuzz around lips and chin.

"Nah, I ain't got one. You kin leave yer name'n phone with me if ya want, I'll call ya when I get one."

Evanon frowned. "This is not 2438 South Evers?"

Their host said, "Naw, man, this is 2438 South Everest, extra E in the middle, T on the end. People make that mistake all the time."

"Oh," Evanon said blankly. Eddy shut his door and their host creaked down the staircase just in time to get blown halfway across the room when, apparently, the kitchen the boys still had not seen exploded.

Their host got back on his feet. "Jesus, Billy, you okay?"

When the clatter of falling objects stopped, a weary voice said, "Yeah, I think so."

"Sir, would you like me to call 911?" Evanon said, not remembering that his phone was already in use.

Two voices said together, "No! Not necessary!"

Billy, a small fat man with even less charm than the other two, something Evanon might otherwise have deemed impossible, appeared from the kitchen, his shirt ripped, his hair blown into a very odd shape like a large meringue, and fine black particles of soot embedded in his skin. "No! I'm fine, not hurt at all! And it's an electric oven! I was just usin' it to dry some car parts, must not have cleaned all the gasoline off 'em! That's all!"

A certain stink from the kitchen seemed to confirm this, a reek both like and unlike gasoline.

"C'mon," their erstwhile host said, "I'll give ya directions to Evers. Ya only missed it by a lef' turn."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"It does not look very..." Evanon let the sentence trail off. Probably, Jason thought, the rest of it was "clean."

Dust lay thickly on what might once have been green felt, used to line the display window of an unprepossessing pawn shop. But the fierce Nevada sun had had its way with the fabric, and what wasn't protected by dust was sorry and sun-rotted. Silver items, heavily tarnished, sprawled across it in untidy heaps.

"Shall we go in?" Evanon said. Not quite eagerly.

"Nah," said Jack Darby. "All of us are hungry, so I think we'll be next door getting a bite to eat. We'll do the phone trick again, okay? I'll call Jason, and Evanon, you call Shad. Want us to bring you anything?"

Jason looked at the mom-and-pop deli, and though his stomach growled, answered, "No, too dicey. Ev?"

His changeling didn't need to look. "No. I cannot tell how much the harp will cost."

Miko's eyes widened. "You must really want that harp."

Evanon smiled down at her. "Yes, I really do."

The others peeled off, Raf skipping beside Jack.

The changelings inspected the window some more. The clothes hung in it either didn't spend summer there or were newly cared for. They were also authentic: 1960s cotton and wool, the pseudo-medieval look then in vogue (and _Seventeen_). Emerald-green cotton with bell-sleeves rimmed in silver; sapphire velvet, laced down front and sleeves; light wool, ruffles cascading down the chest and over the hands, chaste white save for a map of small orange islands on one sleeve, the record of a fifty-years-past encounter with spaghetti sauce.

And bell-bottoms. The height of fashion when worn with narrow shoes a half-century ago.

All this Jason took in in a glance, along with the mystery ironwork every antique shop has a plethora of. Any given object might have been a medieval torture implement, an 1820s mangle, or part of a seventeenth-century barbeque.

Of course to Jason its past history didn't matter. He couldn't touch anything made of iron, no matter its age.

"Well, we found it, finally," he said to Evanon. "Let's go in and look. Maybe the harp'll be worth it."

It didn't, at least, smell like many used-clothing shops: everybody's funk pent up for a year in a small space, left to fester and lie in wait for the unwary nose. Though once the teenagers shut the sun out by closing the door, all the shadows in the corners showed a disturbing habit of stepping closer.

"How can I help you today?" said an ancient voice, and an equally ancient woman stepped out of those shadows.

She was small, roughly the size of Lady Diarwen, and like the Sidhe, her hair was silver. But this woman looked fully human: her hair pulled up into a messy bun on top of her head, revealing human ears, and eyes of faded brown.

Those eyes darted from one young man to another, as she shifted a double-bore shotgun casually into one hand. It contrasted with her simple floral-print tee shirt and gray pants, topped by an apron with hefty pockets in another floral print, this one totally unrelated to the tee under it: June Cleaver, on meth.

Jason heard Evanon gulp. "My lady, I am interested in buying the harp you advertised for sale."

The woman narrowed her eyes at them. "I don't advertise."

Evanon pulled out the slip he had torn from the ad, and handed it to her.

She laid the shotgun down on the display case to read it, eyebrows raised, head tilted back to look down her nose through her spectacles. "Shaw Moore!" she shouted. "Did you advertise?"

A coal-black cat about the size of the average beagle, all of it muscle and flowing long coat, divorced itself from the surrounding darkness and leapt up to the counter at the woman's elbow. It wrapped its fringed tail neatly around its forepaws and uttered something that sounded entirely too close to, "Nao."

The elderly woman scratched at her bun, removed a previously-invisible pencil from it, and stared at the pencil, wide-eyed. "Well, who...oh, it must have been that one himself, the seller, I mean. He's awfully anxious to be rid of the poor harp, which has done him no wrong but be hard to learn. Which is more or less a harp's job."

Jason grinned. Learning guitar himself, he could attest to that.

The cat blinked emerald eyes at the two boys, and waited, the end of its tail occasionally twitching.

The woman picked up her shotgun and went toward a case which was at least seven feet tall and about that wide, with doors made of solid oak, and fussed a huge ring of keys out of one pocket. Her slipper-shod feet raised a small "pluff" of dust with each halting step.

She half-turned away from the case to lay her double-bore shotgun on a shorter, glass-faced case. The cat had followed by leaping from case to case, and curled its tail around itself again, sitting, Jason noted, very close to the trigger of that gun.

She opened the case and pulled out the doors with some effort, though they moved noiselessly. She stepped aside, gesturing the boys forward. "Who has the buying of it? Do you know how to play?"

"I have," Evanon said calmly, "and yes, I have been taught to play."

Evanon lifted the harp out. To Jason's eyes, it was like Diarwen's, which he had seen a time or two, only in general shape. For one thing, it was not all that much shorter than Evan himself. For a second, it was undecorated, where Diarwen's was carved with delicate floral and Celtic-knot tracery.

For a third, it was a bright blue never seen in nature. Plain slabs of bright blue at a harpish angle to one another.

Evanon stared at it for a moment, then shrugged and said, "Like a horse, a good harp cannot be a bad color. But I had hoped for a lap harp."

"A smaller one? I have one somewhere around here. Shaw, you know where it is?"

Evanon restored the harp to its place, and the black cat jumped down from the case, twined its tail around his leg, then wandered farther into the shop. When he did not follow, it looked back at him, and came very close, Jason thought, to saying, "C'mon. Now."

The boys exchanged glances, and both followed the cat, the woman staying in sight but where she could also see the door.

The shop had two lap harps, but the cat refused to allow Evanon to consider a harp with a light finish, which was, of course, the one the boys spotted first. Its carving was pleasant, vines twining along the frame and soundbox, but the animal insisted, at one point hooking a claw into Evanon's jeans, on taking the boys into the very back of the shop.

There, behind a wall of protective iron clutter, on a cracked table of finely-carved oak, sat a smallish, dark-wood lap harp, its carvings deep and intricate Celtic knotwork.

Jason saw Evanon's eyes light. "This one is to be mine?" he said to the cat, who bumped a black head against his leg, hopped up onto yet another case, this one filled with things that probably belonged in an extremely full-service butcher shop, and folded its forepaws in front of itself.

Jason couldn't help him excavate the iron crap, but ten minutes' hard work freed the harp. Evanon perched on the edge of a dusty, ripped armchair with it, and removed a dark red bag that had been woven through the strings. This contained a tuner, which looked to Jason like a hex wrench, and an extra set of strings.

Those still on the harp proved to be sweet under their dust, and tuned up swiftly. Evanon took it for what Jason's guitar teacher had called a "test drive," playing a few snatches of this and that, then checking the intonation across the scale.

Then the harp leapt to life under his hands, and the music danced out across the dusty room, bringing to it life and, somehow, light.

Jason had no way to know how long Evanon played, ten seconds or thirty years. When he stopped, it was as if the whole world drew a breath.

"How much?" the changeling said to the old woman, and there ensued a haggle which, had Ironhide been a part of it, would have ended in detonation. Both humans had the knowing of the haggle, the high and honored tradition that encompasses wedding negotiations, peace treaties, and the trading of a goat for a flock of six ducks and pound of butter, instead of two pounds. Neither was willing to bend. (Evanon could not. He had a fixed amount of money with him, after all.)

At last Evanon threw the woman a look that should have melted her heart, if she had one (_true_ hagglers carefully put theirs into a casket of silver wreathed round with mistletoe before embarking upon the haggle), and said, "Well, as I cannot afford this harp, I shall try the other one, in the lighter finish."

The cat protested. The old woman said nothing, simply keeping half her attention on the shop's door.

Jason could tell no difference in the playing, but something lacked in the second harp's interaction with his friend. Where the first harp had wakened under Evanon's fingers, this one stayed quiet. For Evanon, it was willing only to be a tool for making music, not an extension of his soul.

The human sighed and set it down. "I cannot meet your price for the harp I prefer," he said to the woman. "However, I will send my teacher here. She is looking for a second harp to back up her performance instrument, and she may want this one."

"You will refer a customer to me?" the woman said. "Well. That changes things." She named a price that Evanon could not quite meet, a difference expressed in one dollar bills, not tens.

This haggle was cut short when the cat, Jason swore afterward, meowed, "Give it to the kid."

"You'll catch your own dinner for a week?" the woman said. "I shall not short you on the catnip."

Jason's stomach growled again at the word "dinner."

And cats should not be able to meow the word "Yes," but this one did.

The woman named a price that left Evanon with five bucks in his pocket. He attempted the haggle, as one must, but the elderly woman said firmly, "No, boy, that's my last price. Shaw, you show him where the harp's bag is, if he decides to take it." She marched sturdily back to the counter.

"Jason," Evanon said turning to his friend, "what shall I do? I know you are hungry, and I am too. But this harp..."

"No, you've got to have this harp. _This_ harp. Let Lady Diarwen buy the other, if it sings for her as this one does for you. I won't starve. We'll get something from McDonald's if we have to. I can eat their chicken sandwich."

Tears shone in Evanon's eyes. "You are a good friend," he said, and clasped Jason's forearm.

"You're one yourself," the other boy said, and returned the embrace.

The cat showed Evanon to a selection of harp bags. He chose a leather one lined in green velvet, and took his new love to the counter, dragging out his money and placing all but his last five on the counter.

The others arrived, but simply joined Jason, staying quiet.

The old woman looked at the tag, and then back at Evanon. "Here, Shaw, did you mark this down?"

"Nao," said the cat.

She shook her head. "I thought the tag was for ten more. You take this back"—she shoved a twenty across the counter—"and you'll say naught to anyone about how forgetful an old woman gets when you give her a good haggle, will you now?"

Grateful, Evanon took the bill, and said, "Thank you. No, my lady, I shall not."

On their way out the door, Jason heard the cat meow, and the old woman say to it, "Well, what would you have me do? It is expensive to buy lunch these days, even in Tranquility. And you willna have the catching of your own dinner, so it is all good, is it not?"

And the cat meowed, "It is that" as the door shut on them both.

End Part Sixteen


	17. Chapter 17

Part Seventeen

[AN: Because chapter 17 came out so short, I am posting both chapter 17 and chapter 18 today. /AN]

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"It's really hot," Raf said, pedaling and sweating.

"It really is," Jack said. He raised his voice to shout, "Stop a minute! Water break!" Lowering it again, he said to his younger friend, "We don't have all that much farther to go, though. And maybe we can get some more water at the garage. Lucky thing, eh?"

Mounting up again, the teenagers returned to the garage a little before six.

Jason dismounted and leaned his bike against a wall as the others plundered the tap set above a sink. Jason said to Ironhide's fellow noncom, "Are we set?"

His dad grinned. "We sure are, son. Just got done signing the papers. We'll be back a week after school lets out for summer."

Evanon rolled up and dismounted. "Mrs. Brierly. Mr. Brierly."

"Evanon, son," said Jason's father. "What have you got there?"

"I found a Celtic harp," said Jason's changeling, and smiled like a summer day's dawn. "I will be able to keep up my playing, now."

"You ought to hear him, Dad, Mom. He plays really great."

Evanon grinned and shuffled, and Mrs. Brierly's eyes filled with tears. She saw that smile every morning from the other side of her marriage bed.

Her husband put an arm around Evanon's mother's shoulders and squeezed, once. She said, "Evanon, we'd love to hear you play. Will you, sometime?"

This son who was not her son at all smiled at her and half-bowed to her. "My lady, I would be honored to do so."

"We'll ask you to play at our anniversary party this year."

Jason smiled at his mom, who was looking up at his dad like the sun shined out of all his orifices at once. "Where are we going to live, Dad?"

His father kissed the top of his beloved's head. "We'll find a motel to begin with, while we see what's available, but we'll start our research right now: checking out the neighborhoods and the schools. Don't want to move you into a sucky school. Your mom will have heard back from the school districts by then, so we'll know a little better what the money situation is going to be like."

Jason's eyes lit. "I could go to the base and homeschool with Evanon." Evanon's face lit to match their son's, and neither parent missed that. Jason continued, "Then I'd be with my friends, and I wouldn't have to worry about getting chemicals out of cafeteria food or anything. And we could live wherever we want!"

His father scratched his chin. "We need to check on all that stuff before we make any big plans. You might have to homeschool at _home_. But I got to admit, I'd worry a lot less. That time you drank the apple juice and puked for three days scared the hell out of us."

Jason flushed. "Aw, Dad, don't tell stuff like that in front of everybody!"

Mr. Brierly chuckled. "Sorry, Jase. Parents are supposed to embarrass their kids, it's a law, I think. Let's get back to the campground. I'm looking forward to a pizza and a cold beer or three."

Jack called the base to report that Jason was with his parents, and the rest of them were on their way home. As they were getting their bikes, Jack looked back inside the garage and saw Mikaela and her dad shake hands like strangers, then Kaela turned and went to her car without another word. For a moment out of time, Mr. Banes looked after her, devastation etching harsh lines into his face.

They did not fade after she had driven away.

Jack thought about his own long-gone father, and turned away, shaking his head.

He swung his leg over his bike and fell into line behind Evanon, who had his new harp in its tooled leather case strapped securely to his back.

For a moment he thought he caught a glimpse of sunlight reflecting off the silver of the younger boy's scabbard, which he knew was glamoured at his side. From _Blackhawk Down_, the song lyric, "The minstrel boy to the war has gone/In the ranks of death you'll find him," ran through his mind. He shook his head hard.

Himself, the minstrel boy in front of him, young Raf, even Miko: anyone could end up like the song's minstrel boy any day, that was a given. But it was a whole lot less likely, Jack thought, now that Megatron, Starscream and Shockwave were all dead, and Soundwave lay in in stasis, likely to stay that way for Jack's lifetime. All their lifetimes, and those of their children and grandchildren as well.

He felt safer than he had since the moment he became aware of the Transformers' presence on his planet, an incident that seemed to him long ago.

End Part Seventeen


	18. Chapter 18

Part Eighteen

Disclaimers in Part One

[AN: Because chapter 17 came out so short, I am posting both chapter 17 and chapter 18 today. /AN]

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Their return actually began to go south before they even left base. At eight AM of a Saturday morning, Jolt reported to a workshop on drug overdoses, along with Ratchet, Perceptor, Sapphire, McKuen, and some of the human medics.

The instructor had brought samples of many ways to get one's self chemically altered. The humans sniffed (at a distance and without straws) and cautiously touched. Perceptor, placed on the table, scanned all the substances and shared a file which contained their chemical signatures. The rest of the workshop was uneventful, if marred by the human medics' jealousy.

Once they arrived at base, Raf wanted nothing more than to get home. Evanon and Miko wanted to hit the commons for a piece of pizza and a soda, which would not spoil either one's appetite, nor Jack's own. He reported this last-minute change of plans to his mother.

The commons was not crowded, as the military enjoyed a weekend as much as anyone else. Jolt came to see them, asking Shad how his day had been.

And, when Evanon walked by him, the young medic's helm turned to follow him.

"Something wrong, Jolt?" Jack asked. The mushroom pizza was pretty nice today, but then he'd been lucky and got a slice from a fresh one. In the sausage and peppers slice he was less fortunate...

Jolt squatted beside him. "Where did you all go today, Jack?" he asked, and suddenly Jack remembered that Jolt was senior to him in function as well as several thousand years of age, already training as a medic: and he knew then that this was no casual question.

"Uh, the garage first, then the mall," Jack said, looking straight up into the bright-blue optics, "then a house where Evanon and Jason went inside to look at a harp, but they got the address wrong. After that, we went to the right address and bought the harp, then back to the garage, where Jason went back to the campground with his parents. From there, the rest of us came back to base."

Jolt frowned. "All of you were in the garage? But only Jason and Evanon entered the house that you found by mistake?"

"That's right."

"How many people went into the shop?"

"All of us, eventually. While they bought the harp, the rest of us were right next door in a diner. We all went to the antique shop after we'd eaten."

"I see. Would you give me Jason's parents cell number? And Evanon must come with me."

"Am I allowed to know what's going on? I mean, it's OK if I'm not."

Jolt frowned. "It contradicts patient interest to share that kind of information. I am sure Evanon will share it with you, if he thinks it wise to do so."

"Okay. Just...uh, could you let him finish his pizza first? If he's as hungry as I am..."

Jolt, after all, was Shad's roommate, and knew the exigencies of a teenage boy's appetite. "Yes, I will wait for him. But he must come with me. Will you be home, Jack?"

"Yes. Why don't you just wait with me, then, and catch him as he's getting ready to leave?"

"Very well." Jolt went still and quiet, with that faraway look in his optics which meant he was comming.

When Shad finished his pizza and coke, Jolt rose from his crouch beside Jack, and said formally, "Evanon, I would like your company for a moment, please."

Evanon looked as puzzled as Jack felt. "Very well. I must tell 'Hide and Chromia where I am, though."

"There is no need; I commed them," Jolt said. "This way, please." He made the human gesture which usually accompanies those words: palm up, servo moving forward in front of the chestplates, servo digits pointing the way to go. In this case, to Medbay.

Puzzled, Evanon sat on one of the human-sized examination tables. When Ironhide and Chromia arrived, the one angry and the other concerned, some comming Evanon knew concerned him passed among them, but after Chomia's wave and 'Hide's curt nod, they did not speak to him.

At the end of it, one of the base SFs strode in, followed by a junior SF, and Ratchet, four times their height, followed. He gestured Jolt, Ironhide, and Chromia to come with him.

"Well, Evanon," the CMO said, "you have some explaining to do." The SFs pulled out their notebooks; normally they would have insisted on doing the interviewing, but Ratchet...

Evanon looked at the bot, puzzled. Morithel had forbade her household to beat him, normally the fate of a young slave, so fear did not enter into his equation for this interaction. He said only, "I see. What am I to explain?"

Jolt, at Ratchet's elbow, said, "This morning I took a class on human drugs and what to do for overdoses. One of the drugs we covered was methamphetamine. Evanon, the by-products of methamphetamine production are all over your clothes and skin."

"But how...?"

Ratchet scowled. "We were rather hoping you could tell us that. What did you do today?"

"My friend Jason rode over from the campground in Tranquility, and he and I, with a group of other friends from the base, went back to town with him. First we went to the mall. While I was there I found a posting for a Celtic harp for sale, and I had the money to buy it. I went to the address on the posting, but the man there said I had the wrong place. He sent us to another address, where we found a pawnshop. The others ate lunch while I found the harp, and joined us in the shop just as I paid for it. Then we returned to the garage Jason's parents are buying, and came back to base after that."

The senior SF narrowed his eyes, and wrote a little faster. "May I ask you some questions, Evanon? My name is Rogers, and I'm assigned to the security forces on this base."

"Yes, I will answer your questions."

"Thank you. Will you consent to a blood test?"

Ironhide rumbled, "Evanon is our adopted son. Why do you need a blood test?"

Rogers said, more politely than he might have to a pair of human parents, "Two reasons. He's been exposed to a meth lab, from the sound of it, or he takes the stuff himself. The blood test will confirm whether he takes it"—both Ironhide and Chromia bristled, but Rogers did not faint—"and let us know what he's been exposed to. Depending on what that is, he might have to spend the night in the hospital. Now, I understand that the whole group didn't go with you into that house. Do you remember the address?"

Chromia said, "Stop right there. Evanon, say nothing more. If Evanon is being accused of something, then we need to involve a lawyer. Evanon cannot consent to a blood test, he's not old enough. I won't allow him to incriminate himself."

"You're on a military base, we can make it an order."

The tone of Chromia's voice dropped thirty degrees. "Then before we involve an attorney, I believe I should involve my other son."

Everyone in the room stopped dead. Ratchet and Jolt's optics flared.

The two SFs looked at each other, well aware that they had just Stepped In It. Up past their eyebrows, most likely.

Ratchet also realized that he had put his ped where it didn't belong, when he started questioning Evanon in front of the two SFs. Trying to fix the problem, he asked, very reasonably, "Do you honestly think that this young man could have been living with the Prime's foster parents for all this time while taking methamphetamine, and that neither of them had noticed the chemicals?"

"Well, uh—"

Ratchet commed Chromia. ::Maybe if Evanon has a logical explanation for how that slag got on his clothes, these glitched accusations can go away before we have to drag Optimus into this.::

::He cannot say anything in front of them until we know what happened. However he became contaminated, could it produce a false positive on one of their primitive tests?::

Ratchet quickly researched that question. ::I don't think so, but there are a lot of innocent people in their prisons on drug charges. It isn't a chance we want to take with Evanon.::

::Then I don't see a choice but to bring Optimus into it.::

::Neither do I. Scrap. You comm him, maybe we can keep it a cohort thing.::

::Right.:: Chromia commed Optimus. ::Are you in the middle of something?::

::Reports, why? Has something happened?::

Chromia sent him a file of the conversation with the SFs. ::I will be right there. None of you say anything else until I get there.::

::Yes, Prime.::

A few minutes later, the medbay doors slid open to admit Optimus. He said to the SFs, "I have received Chromia's report on this incident. May I hear your side of it?"

The SFs knew an order when they heard one, even if it was in the form of a courteous request. "Sir. There's a zero-tolerance policy on all military bases for illegal drugs, and the kid turned up positive for the byproducts of meth."

"The by-products. Not the drug itself," Optimus clarified.

"He's been around where it was being made, sir."

"I see. Are you accusing my foster-brother of running a meth lab? Right under Ironhide's olfactory sensors? That seems incredibly far-fetched to me."

"Yes, sir, it does to us too. But it was Jolt who detected the chemicals on him."

"Logically, therefore, he has come into contact with someone else's meth lab," Optimus stated.

"Yes, sir. Very likely, sir."

"Then, if you will withdraw these baseless accusations against my brother, we can move on to discovering the location of this lab before it explodes and kills everyone in the structure."

"We're following procedure, sir, changing it is above our pay grade."

Optimus said, "I understand. Perhaps we should wait while you speak to Colonel Lennox."

The two SFs had no choice except to send it up the chain of command, an outcome that had become inevitable the instant that they mentioned Evanon's possible involvement. Now, they very much regretted having phrased it that way.

Lennox arrived another fifteen minutes later, bristling, and everything had to be repeated for his benefit. He said, "Evanon's whereabouts were tracked on GPS all day, correct?"

"Sir, yes sir!"

"Go trace his route. Take Jolt with you to sniff for the meth. Once you know where it came from, report it to the civilian authorities. Evanon, you need to stay put, but you won't be involved unless the local law independently finds evidence implicating you."

"Thank you, Colonel."

The two men left, but Lennox hung around to make sure this didn't turn into another incident.

"OK, can we talk about this off the record? As cohort?"

Optimus said, "We can. If anyone who is not cohort asks about it, there was no conversation."

"Evanon, have you got any idea how this happened?"

"Possibly. Optimus, you said that these meth labs can explode?"

"Yes, they are very dangerous."

"Well, while we were at the wrong house getting directions, there was some kind of a small explosion. A man came into the living room from the kitchen area with soot all over him. He said they were drying car parts in an electric oven, and that there must have still been gasoline fumes. There was a smell like gasoline, but now that you have said this, I would not be surprised if that were the explanation."

Lennox said, "And if those two jackasses hadn't turned this into a federal case, we would have known that by now."

"I have a slip of paper here with the pawnshop's address, it is 2438 South Everest. I had mistaken it for South Evers, you see." He produced a much-crumpled slip, of the kind torn from the bottom of a handmade poster.

"This came from the advertisement for the harp?"

"Yes, sir."

"OK, that proves you were at the wrong address," Lennox replied. "Otherwise, it has nothing to do with the meth lab. Evanon, any time you get nabbed by the law, you say two things and two things only: _I am exercising my right to remain silent, and I want a lawyer._ Never say anything else. There are too many crooked prosecutors out there to take a chance on cooperating before you talk to your lawyer."

"Yes, sir. In the Underhill, I would have demanded my right to be judged as a member of the Lady Morithel's household—as such, my punishment for any wrongdoing would have been hers to determine, unless my transgression were against the Royal House. I suppose I did not think that such precautions would be necessary here. I am very sorry to have created an incident."

Ironhide said, "Wasn't your fault, Evanon."

"What if those people realize that Jason and I had to be the ones who led the police to them? If they accuse me of something in revenge, how can I defend my honor?"

"That blood test they wanted should exonerate you, if that happens," Ratchet replied. "But I doubt it will. When the cops find the meth lab, they'll be able to tell it's been there longer than this afternoon."

During the forty minutes they waited for the meth lab to be located and raided, Jason and his parents arrived, having come straight over when apprised of Evanon's exposure. Ratchet confirmed that the same trace chemicals were present on Jason's clothing. Fortunately, he had not been made ill by exposure to them.

Ratchet got the teens each a set of patients' pajamas and paper shoes, then had them step behind a screen to change and bag up their clothes.

Once the police notified them that the boys' only involvement in the case was as witnesses, Ratchet gave the changelings four pages of printout, laminated to take into the shower with them, on how to scrub down after their exposure. They giggled a bit, but got it done.

Ratchet told the Brierlys and 'Hide and Chromia that the boys' clothing, shoes, and pocket contents would be returned once everything had been decontaminated. Twenty-four hours.

Mr. Brierly said, "I was hoping one of the things we wouldn't have to worry about in a little place like Tranquility was the drugs. It's bad enough in New York." Mrs. Brierly, nodding emphatically at his side, looked more than ever like Evanon.

Lennox said, "I'm sorry, sir. It seems to be everywhere these days. I understand your concerns; I have two little girls of my own. Tranquility is a very small town, so it doesn't have a problem as large as that in Las Vegas or New York, but no place is completely free of it."

"Yeah." The two men looked at everyone else in the room for a moment, and then locked eyes again. Mr. Brierly said, "We're all clear now?"

"Yeah, you can get out of here if you want to. You guys must be exhausted," Lennox said.

Optimus watched them go. "Will, have you time to walk with me?"

"Always, big guy."

Optimus extended his palm and Will stepped up. With a nod to his foster parents and brother, Optimus went out back and continued out of hearing distance of the guards around the Quonset huts.

The night was clear and bright, and chilly in the way of desert nights. Will, in civvies, had a light poplin jacket on over jeans and a polo. He shivered, and asked, "What's the matter?"

Optimus radiated heat into the palm of his occupied servo. "How well do you know those two SFs?"

Lennox shrugged. "They're Nellis personnel, but they had to pass our security clearance. I had no knowledge of them before we vetted them, and no acquaintance with them since. Why, do you suspect something?"

"I suspect a possibility only. They seemed most reluctant to involve you, to their credit. There are individuals who would be gratified to discover that my changeling brother had become embroiled in a drug scandal. I would not put the deliberate exaggeration of this incident into such a scandal beyond those individuals. It is not my desire to accuse these men of any such thing without proof. However, I would like your permission to have Jazz make discreet, unofficial inquiries."

Lennox nodded. "How well did you like having to kick things up along the line, before you were at the top of it?"

"Do you know, I had not thought of that." For such memories, Optimus had to go back to his vorn as a Prime Candidate in the Palace. A few joor after his Elevation, the other Primes and their Protectors had been dead, save the grievously wounded (and traitorous) Sentinel. Optimus had been unceremoniously shoved to the top of that particular line and left to manage, or not, more or less on his own.

Lennox grinned. "Jazz, now, I'm fine with his special talents as long as he reports to me if those inquiries turn anything up."

Optimus nodded in his turn, his optics on the horizon, where stars glittered cold and aloof from the nonsense of Las Vegas. "Of course. In the most likely course of events, there will be nothing, and we will forget that I was ever suspicious of them."

"You can't afford not to be, though. Used to be, people's families were off limits. These days, anything goes."

Optimus knelt carefully, allowing Lennox to step off his servo to the pavement.

"I think I shall enter by the other door," he said. "Ironhide tells me nothing untoward is going on."

"Well, he's right there, and so's Ratchet. Would you get into 'untoward' with either one around?"

"I seem to remember," Optimus said, dignity foremost, "that such was mostly unsuccessful with Ironhide when I was a mechling. You would have to consult with Sideswipe to see if it works any better with Ratchet, though I suspect it does not. Good night, Will."

End Part Eighteen


	19. Chapter 19

Part Nineteen

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Dewayne Sturman had never liked alcohol, and at first demurred, rather brusquely. But then Kenton Cooper's face lit up, and even Malik Tudor smiled.

"You sure?" said Sideswipe, proffering a cube of mid-grade.

If it got a smile out of Malik Tudor, Malik, who never smiled, ever...Dewayne changed his mind. "Nothin' wrong with tryin' it, I guess. Thanks."

A nice Friday evening, getting cool after the heat of the day; kids in the background, running and yelling: their spring break had begun with the end of the school day. Everyone in the circle, shooting the shit on the flats west of the hangars, had been surprised to be joined by first Sides, then his brother. But both were genial companions, and they didn't mind being asked questions about being Cybertronian; all good.

Then Sides unsubspaced cubes and a flask.

Alcohol wasn't really much of an option for the Pretenders. It no longer offered the Desired Effect.

Mid-grade unknotted the kinks pretty nicely, Dewayne had to admit. He had a couple more, and then began to wonder if he should transform and drive or walk home. If he drove, would he get arrested for driving himself while drunk?

Instead of recognizing that thought as a good indication that he should stop drinking, Dewayne had a couple more. Likely, that was why Kevin Santini's idea seemed so very logical.

"Who, us?" Kevin had said, turning his cube around in his hands. "We're the fuckin' knights, man. Protectors of the innocent. Only difference is we don't use swords."

"Speak for yourself, Kevin," Sides said, and knocked back most of a cube not his first.

"Yeah, but you know what'd be cool?" said Kevin, who lacked the common sense of the average jellyfish, but had some very creative ideas to compensate. "We don't have any horses on base, but we got those big repair platforms they use on the planes. We could steal a couple of them. They ain't powered, a'course, but if you guys," he'd smiled at Sunny and Sides, "would push 'em, we could get up a pretty good head of steam. And there's some I-beams over by Cliff House we could use for lances."

The "lances" were behind a fence. Sides lifted Kevin in; the fence reached high enough that the bots couldn't step over. "How are you going to get out, Kev?" the skater said, as Kevin rolled up with one beam under each arm.

Kevin put one beam down about twenty feet from the fence, picked the other up about a foot from its end, and ran at the fence with it.

He planted the end of the beam too close to the wall, clipped it on the way over, and performed a Triple Somersault with Flail and Faceplant. Sunny grabbed the beam as it tipped; otherwise it would have fallen back behind the fence.

Ruggles laughed. "Maybe I better do the next one, Kevin," he said. "I learned how to pole-vault in high school."

Kevin shook himself down and said, "Hank, be my guest."

Hank had not vaulted since graduation; he caught a foot in the top wire, which parted, and went spang! into curls on either side of the break. _One end scratched Sunstreaker's finish_.

The bot just laughed. The high-grade was flowing like water...

Sides managed to catch hold of the beam; Hank rolled into a ball, and eventually rolled to a stop, without much damage beyond a deep scrape on one ankle joint.

Sunny and Sides still had it together enough to practice with the repair lifts without passengers. They found they could go no faster than 33.784 miles per hour and control the frames. Still, this is only slightly less fast than a racehorse, and certainly better than the average knightly charger.

The six Pretenders put their names into a hat, and drew opponents. The three survivors of the first round were Dewayne, Malik, and Kenton. Malik took a look at the other two, and said, "You guys can settle it."

So they did. At 33.784 mph, both I-beams (slightly blunted on one end at this point) impacted each Pretender's shoulder and picked his feet up off the repair platform, holding them both in mid-air just long enough for the platforms to escape out from underneath. Dewayne and Kenton hit the tarmac on their backs, and it rang their bells pretty good.

They looked each other in the eye. "That's a draw, I do believe," Ken said, and Dewayne nodded vigorously, then wished he hadn't.

Augie presented his next bright idea: a footrace. Hank Ruggles, the tallest of them when human except for Dewayne, won. Dewayne had too much muscle to power around at speed.

Top speed? 81.284 mph. Take that, Usain Bolt.

The racing sobered them, and everyone but Dewayne, Augie, and Kev called it a night.

Sides obligingly provided another round.

With a warning, drat the bot. "Now this is my good stuff. It's a little stronger than what you've been used to."

Dewayne's human memories paired its taste to the smell of gasoline, almost. The "almost" being delicious, in ways that his human memories could not parse.

He'd drunk beer now and again, and even some good stuff back in the day. Usually rotgut, though, which was a buzz, and not much else. About like beer, furring the tongue on the way down, the kick coming immediately.

The "good stuff" gave no warning. It caressed the mouth, made love to the fuel intake port, and once in the energon stream, fucked up the op sys right good with no delay.

Threw their energon combustion off, too. All three of the Pretenders began to, to...backfire? misfire? fart?

Of course, this was hilarious. Even Sides and Sunny laughed, though they also moved upwind of the Pretenders.

At some point Kevin Santini said, "Hey, s'anyone gotta lighter?"

"Uh, yeah," Augie Delancy dug one out of subspace and handed it over.

"Why you still got one'a those? I thought you gave up the nicotine," Dewayne said.

"I did," Augie said defensively. "It's still easier to keep a lighter around than to get the mods for fire."

Kevin smiled, de-extruded the trou, and flicked Augie's Bic.

Results were impressive. Earth, after all, had a relatively oxygen-rich atmosphere.

Then Augie had the Big Bad Idea. "I need a torch. Wonder if the machine shop's locked."

"If it is," said Sunstreaker, "I gotta torch."

The shop was locked. Sunny brought his torch out.

The three Pretenders practiced synchronizing their farts. At one point it appeared that their stock had been depleted, so Sides graciously provided another hit. Or two, or was it three?

After the re-up, Augie Delancy could produce on cue. Dewayne himself had previously-unsuspected depths of stamina, as it were. And Kevin, hell, Kevin seemed to have a direct pipeline to an entire herd of cows.

So the three Pretenders built up a good head of steam, you might say, and then...

The resulting detonation broke windows in all of the on-base housing.

The cloud of methane also exploded, flaming up the supply line as well, and not stopping at the Pretender/Rest of the World interface.

Sides called the medics out, just before the Big Twins vanished as if they had never been there at all, and left the three Pretenders lying in the wreckage of two twisted repair platforms, a pair of I-beams which had seen better days, and three severely singed backsides.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Dewayne Sturman sighed and shifted as much as a Pretender who was maglocked to his berth could, which did nothing to ease his pain. He sighed again and shifted some more.

"Pain chip?" said Jolt, and offered him one. "It's time."

"Thanks. More'n ready." Dewayne accepted it and applied it where it did the most good (forearm port).

Jolt offered one to Kevin Santini, with whom Dewayne was going to have Words once they got themselves out of this mess, and Augie Delancy, who like the other two both accepted the chip and used it immediately. Then the young medic returned to the medbay office.

Their comms were shut down, so Augie and Kev couldn't play "Goat Simulator." Dewayne himself liked MMRP games, but couldn't concentrate sufficiently at the moment even had he had his comms.

It was now 4 AM. In another four hours, the three of them would be faced with first Vic Kirsch and then Scott Glasco. Or possibly Ratchet first, then the other two.

Gulp.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Vic Kirsch arrived in medbay like a thunderstorm, brow clouded, the overnight report clutched in his fist and lightning strikes imminent.

He needed to get the thunder out of the way first. "What the hell did you guys do?"

Something about the sentence "We was tryin' to set our farts on fire, Sarge" does not lend itself well to utterance in any language ever spoken on any planet in any universe. A long silence ensued, broken only when Dewayne said, "We was, ah, playin'."

"You were playing? You were _playing_? Why are two mangled twenty-foot aircraft access ladders and two bent I-beams twelve feet long lying in the maintenance area, where medical staff found your sorry barbecued asses?"

Another long silence. Then Kevin said, "We were jousting with them."

Kirsch was not of the age to facepalm; otherwise, he might have. "You were jousting with them. How the hell did you get the I-beams?"

Kevin said, "Got over the fence, and pole-vaulted out."

Vic Kirsch realized that this was turning into one of those "the more you know, the worse it gets" comedies. Still, his job was to soften 'em up for the boss. "And how did that result in the three of you having fried asses?"

"Well, uh, sarge, it was like this," Augie began, to be ruthlessly interrupted.

"No, you aren't going to tell me what it was 'like.' You are going to tell me _exactly_ what happened, one word after another, making complete sentences. You hear me? Not 'like,' Delancy, 'exactly as.' Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Augie said miserably.

"Begin."

The mid-grade after dinner. Everybody feelin' loose and right. The joust, then everybody going home except the Three Musketeers—

"Who the hell are they?"

"That's us, sarge."

Something that might have been a sense of humor showed in Kirsch's eyes, testing the breeze, perhaps; the breeze not being favorable, it vanished immediately. "You go right on ahead, Porthos, and fill me in."

"Well, Sideswipe offered us some high-grade. He said to be careful of it, 'cause it was strong."

"And you never drank high-grade before?"

"Uh, no, sarge. Just mid-grade."

"Let me guess. Didn't drink it slow enough."

"Uh, no, sarge, I guess not."

"What happened next?"

"Uh, it fucked up our energon combustion, sarge."

"It fucked up your combustion."

"An' our processors, a little bit," Dewayne added. "I got the swimmies."

Kirsch gave this new voice an eyeballing that would have fried any eggs the owner of the voice had about his person, then switched back to his original target. "How did it fuck up your combustion?"

"We, ah, we, we started to, umm, vent a lotta excess energon fumes, sarge."

The sense of humor surfaced briefly, took a large gulp of slightly tainted air, and went back underwater. "Let me guess. You experimented with setting your farts on fire _like a bunch of teenage idiots_!"

Silence reigned so long that Kirsch broke it by snapping, "Well?"

"Uh, no Sarge. We didn't. Well, we started to, with Augie's lighter, but."

"But what?"

"Later on we got hold of a torch."

"Whose?"

Silence. A silence so lengthy that Kirsch knew he would not get an answer to that question; it probably meant ratting out someone not now known to be involved. Dang kids. "Never mind who. What happened next?"

Augie shifted on his cot as much as he could, in a way that did not put any part of his backside into contact with its surface. "We synchronized our farts, but I guess it was too big a cloud. It all went up at once, and the fire, the fire, ah, went where the farts was bein' produced."

"You synchronized your farts."

"Yeah, sarge."

Kirsch sighed (it was that or fall on the floor laughing). "Okay. You three are paying for the windows you broke in the living quarters, and replacing the repair platforms you trashed. I don't know if you'll be asked to pay for the I-beams as well. Likely, though. You might see your paychecks again sometime next decade."

"Yes, sarge."

The other two muttered something that Kirsch chose to interpret as "Yes, sarge."

He slapped his knees and rose from the chair he'd been sitting in. "Good! Now that we're all square, all you guys have to do is survive your interview with Mr. Glasco. There might be one with Mr. Hastings too."

Kirsch didn't wait to see the faces fall. He spun on his heel and left.

Glasco was waiting outside with a face like thunder. "Well, Kirsch? What did they do?"

"Sir, if I tell you, you won't be angry anymore. It will make you laugh."

Glasco squared his shoulders. "Just a rundown, then."

"They were given their first high-grade, probably by Sideswipe. Since Sides was involved, I'm thinkin' they had Sunstreaker light their farts with a blowtorch. They won't cough up the names. They're in medbay because the flame, ah, followed the fuel source."

Scott Glasco's expression might have lightened for a moment, if the observer was close by and very alert. "In other words, we are lucky not to have to explain to the media how their flame-cured asses landed somewhere in the next county."

Kirsch almost grinned. "Yessir. They're also responsible for the two ruined mechanic's towers and the bent I-beams in the aircraft repair area."

"Good Lord. They'll see their next paychecks in the twenty-third century."

"Be my guess, sir."

"Yeah. Look, fill me in on the details when I get out of here, will you? I could use a good laugh. Do we know when they'll be fit for duty?"

"Uh, no, sir. Ratchet hasn't seen them yet."

"Oh to be a fly on the wall for that one," Glasco said, nodded to his sergeant, and entered medbay.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Ratchet smiled. "Smells like high-grade misfires in here."

The Three Musketeers, who had fresh, if metaphorical, wounds from both their non-com and their CO taking strips off them, might have huddled down inside their plating just a little.

"I haven't seen this kind of injury since the very beginning of the war," the CMO said. "Brings back a lot of good memories. Here's what's going to happen to you over the next three solar rotations: each of those three days, your filters will be removed and cleaned by med staff three times a day, and the wound site cleaned also. That will probably include applying a dilator tube where it will do the most good, as in some cases the repair nanites have been known to close off the exhaust vent."

Someone moaned. Ratchet, playing Bad CMO, laughed. "If at the end of those three days your afts are looking okay, you will probably be returned to your quarters, though it will be another few days before you're fit for duty. Right now, I am going to examine each of you to see how bad the damage is. When I've finished, I'll administer a pain chip if you need it." He pulled a wheeled screen from subspace, and set it around Dewayne's cot. "Best if you don't make any vocalizer noises, eh?" he said to his first victim.

The other two looked at each other wide-eyed. Then the murmurs from Ratchet and the muffled snorts from Dewayne began. When Ratchet pulled the screen over to Kevin Santini's cot, Dewayne was revealed to have cleaning-fluid tracks running down from the corner of each optic.

Lather, rinse, repeat. Kevin Santini's optics were pried as wide open as they could go when Ratchet rolled the screen over to his cot.

No muffled snorts resulted here, however. Ratchet had run out of the really good jokes he told the other two.

The CMO went into his office, comming Prowl on the way by. ::Softened the ringleader up for you. Have fun!::

Prowl did not reply.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Prowl erupted into medbay. If the three Pretenders had ever wanted to know what the tactician looked like when he was angry, that desire was now fulfilled right up to the brim.

His browplates were drawn so tightly together it was a wonder the crinkling of metal was not audible, and seismic tremblings emanated in every direction from the bot. Even Jazz, sauntering in after his mate in his usual casual fashion, looked concerned.

Prowl took a look at them, lying uncomfortably on their sides, as lying on their backs was too painful still, and said, in a voice clipped as tightly as any drill sergeant's, "What were you three thinking?"

The two followers looked at Augie, so Prowl did too. The Pretender gulped.

"It was jus' fun, Prowl. 'S a thing I useta do with my buddies in Boston, back in the day."

"That day is over," Prowl said firmly. "And you will address me as 'sir.'"

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Glasco has forwarded to me his suggestions for punishment. I find them extremely suitable, and he will put them into place as soon as you are fit for duty. You will be confined to base for as long as it takes you to make reparation for the damage you caused; seventy-five percent of each paycheck will be will each stand twenty-five shifts of guard duty, three each week, and twenty-five shifts of kitchen duty as well. Six days a week you will have double shifts, until those fifty shifts are covered. Clear?"

"Yes, sir." The mumble came in triplicate.

Prowl turned and walked out. Jazz remained, and looked at three sorry, and singed, afts.

"Your first high-grade?"

"Yes, sir," the Chorus of Misery replied.

"Look. There's a way to make fire yourself without mods, okay? Lemme show you the access routes. I'm gonna show you some self-monitoring routines we all got, too. Can't imagine why nobody tol' you, but I'll fix that."

"Wait, sir. What do you mean?" said Kevin Santini.

Jazz pulled a chair around and sat on it with his arms across the back. "Don't 'sir' me unless I tell you to. We all online with a certain basic instruction set in ROM—that's short f'r read-only memory. That's a kinda memory chip that just has reference stuff on it, things that never change so ya don't gotta write to it. But there's all kinda how-to's in there. You could call it a, a, a Cybertronian 101 cheat sheet. Ordinarily a sparklin's' cohort shows 'em where t' find it soon as they c'n understand it. All you woulda had to do was pull this formula out of ROM, scan the amount of oxygen in the air and how much energon vapor ya was fartin' out, and it woulda told you how big an explosion you'd get from lightin' it off. Wouldn't have warned you about burnin' your afts, couldn't help that ya was too drunk t' think about fire burnin' back up the vapor trail—but you wouldn't'a busted all the windows an' scared the daylights outta all the base dependents. Ah'll show ya where it is, an' ya can go through the menus an' figure out how to find stuff like that. Ya'll'll prob'ly think it's kinda like an owner's manual for all'a the senses an' stuff we got that humans don't."

Dewayne offered a hardline to that one of his wrist ports free of a pain chip. "Here, show me an' Imma push it out to everybody else soon as they let us turn our comms back on. Imma have a lil' talk with Derek Pierpoint while I'm at it, 'cause I'll bet ya anything he found it first thing and jus' took for granted everybody else did too!"

The other two grumbled, and it would not surprise Jazz to find out that was true. Pierpoint was gifted with extreme intelligence but unfortunately, the processor space used for common sense by most bots and Pretenders seemed to have been taken up by smarts. See: Wheeljack.

Jazz ex-vented slowly, configuring his firewalls to protect both his own and Dewayne's privacy, then extended his wrist hardline.

Dewayne settled quite a bit when he understood the process of showing him where to find the data on the ROM chip was not an invasive one. In fact, had they not had their comms turned off, Jazz could simply have pushed the instructions out to him.

Once Jazz confirmed that Dewayne understood how to access that area of memory, the spymaster left the medbay: good deed done for the day.

The three Pretenders got their paychecks back a lot earlier than they expected to when Frank Hastings read the report, grinned from ear to ear, paid for the damages, and wrote it off as an entertainment expense.

End Part Nineteen


	20. Chapter 20

Part Twenty

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"I'm Dr. Jarvis Louis," the shrink said, sat down, and flipped his tie out of the way. "I''m here to perform your assessment."

Marian glowered and did not bother to reply beyond grumbling, "Not crazy."

"The killer about insanity is that the sufferer rarely knows that he or she is suffering," Dr. Louis said peaceably, his pen beginning to dance across a yellow legal pad: first Marian's name, then the date, then -_subject presents as malodorous, disheveled, curt, and rude_. "If you are found to be unable to understand the charges against you or assist in your own defense, your judicial course will be immediately affected."

Marian sneered. "You mean I'll be sent to the loony bin instead of the pen."

-_subject uses common derogatory terms for sites of incarceration_ Each insight occupied its own line, began with the hyphen, and used no other punctuation.

"Yes. In that environment more attention will be paid to your medical needs, if such exist.—Marian, will you tell me how you came to be here?"

The fat woman shrugged, and her shackles jangled. "I was doing the Lord's work assigned to me by Reverend Dowling when a little faggot" _-uses derogatory term for homosexuals_ "we had in our bosom was executed" -_regards murder of gay child as execution _"by the Reverend Dowling. Another little faggot got away when Dowling tried to kill him too, and apparently that little creep had a line to the giant alien robots. They got the cops involved. Reverend Dowling died, and the little faggot ratted me out" -_derogatory term applied to both gay children known at compound -boy who gave info regarded as ratting out subject_ "when the cops came."

"What information did he give them?"

Marian glared at the doctor. "It was my job to get faggots to kill themselves. To purge the Earth of that disease. And he told 'em I'd done it, an' they arrested me. They're all goin' to hell, and I'd be purely pleased to speed that little faggot on his way."

The doctor's pen scratched busily. -_subject's POV seems limited to fundamentalist outlook -vengeful _"And how did you do that?"

Marian shrugged. "I posed as one of 'em, e-mailed 'em, and kept tellin' 'em it was okay to off themselves if they was bein' bullied at home or at school for bein' faggots."

-_subject is unrepentant_

"I see." The doctor looked up from his pad, to find her staring at him truculently. The air-conditioning in the interview room was not quite up to the task presented by Marian's BO. "How did the informant find that information?"

Marian shrugged; the gesture set off boob-quakes. -_subject wears no brassiere_ "I kept the really successful email threads. The Rev told me not to, and I knew I shouldna, but I never showed them to anyone else. Not even to my husband. I was proud of them. The Earth was free of them queers because of what I did. I couldn't tell anybody what I was doing, and I wanted somethin' to remember the good work I had done." Marian scratched right along with the doctor's pen (-_subject is aware that what she did is regarded as wrong_). The doctor glanced at his watch to make a brief note of the time of that "I knew I shouldna" remark, and the odor in the room intensified while Marian scratched herself. "And, y'know, if it worked once, it would prolly work again. I got to th' point where six, eight emails was all I needed to get the job done." -_subject takes pride in the efficiency of her cyber-bullying_

The pen danced across the page, and the doctor flipped one sheet, wrote on the top of the other, and continued. -_trophy-keeping cause of downfall -regards driving the children she corresponded with to suicide as good work_

"Why was that work so important, Marian?"

"Well, faggots, they're a waste of oxygen, ain't they? No kids, an' they'll subvert your own kids if they can. Rape 'em." -_subject believes common fantasy that gay men will rape whenever possible_

"What about lesbians?"

The silence lasted so long, and the air in the room grew so poisonous, that the doctor finished writing and looked up. Marian was staring at him with a laser glare, her face purple with rage.

"They don't deserve to live! Even less'n the faggots! They could have babies if they wasn't what they was, an' denyin' the Lord His followers is _evil_!"

_subject is very likely lesbian herself, and deep in denial_

Five minutes left. Dr. Jarvis Louis could have terminated the interview, as he had all the information he needed, but...

"Marian, when did you begin to believe this was the correct course of action?"

Fear flashed across the fat face. "I was five'r six when my daddy took me with him to a lynchin'. We lived away back in the hills, and nobody ever found that kid."

"Did he tell you how he knew the kid was gay?"

"Not then. Later. That time, he just made sure I knew my Bible on the subject, and what was right to do."

The pen danced. The doctor said, "When did you become involved with the Reverend Dowling?"

"Oh," said Marian, with an airy flap of her hand that raised the level of stink in the room, "that was all Eldon's doin'. His father said, 'Come on down here and live in the Lord's righteousness,' and Eldon, he couldn't get packed fast enough. Some people are momma's boys, but Eldon, he was a daddy's boy."

_-subject does not grieve her husband_

"Do you wonder about your children?"

"None of 'em but my triplets. That little bitch Leah, I'm a-gonna get her good."

The pen had quite a lot of work to do with that one, including a Note to Self to file a mandatory-reporter paper concerning that threat.

"How has your incarceration been, Marian?"

A heavy shrug, and more stink. "Been okay. I get 'em all to leave me alone 'less I need somethin'."

Dr. Louis was most relieved when the guards, as instructed, knocked politely at the door. He gestured them to come in, said, "Thank you for your time, Marian," and escaped into clean air.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"All rise! The Jefferson County Court of Common Pleas is now in session, the Honorable Judge Benjamin P. Kincannon presiding!" the bailiff bellowed.

Judge Kincannon looked over the courtroom as he exited his chambers. Next on the docket was a competency hearing for one of the Eastgate Church crowd. So far, two of the church elders had accepted plea deals involving lengthy prison terms to get the possibility of the death penalty off the table, as they could be held responsible for the deaths of their co-conspirators.

This case, though...Marian Nielson was charged with voluntary manslaughter for knowingly assisting another in the commission of self-murder. She had been charged with three counts, young boys who had lived in the state of Missouri; Kincannon knew, though, that there had been many more.

In all three cases, she was accused of advising the boys on the best way to carry out their suicides. She was also charged with attempting to murder her three small children.

Kincannon doubted this case would plead out, not with Parker Landingham, tall and cadaverous, for the defense. In St. Louis, Nielson would have drawn someone from the public defender's office, and they hated to take cases to trial. But Landingham was the best defense attorney in Jefferson County, taking his turn at pro bono work, as did all members of the Jefferson County Bar Association.

Landingham was a strong believer in the judicial process. To him, every defendant was entitled to a vigorous defense, with no exception. It was the duty of the judicial system to ensure the vigor of that defense, so that when a defendant was found guilty, the public could be confident that the person was, in fact, guilty.

The County Prosecutor, Irvin Walters, was arguing this case himself. Walters, a stern man, had been a Navy lawyer for many years before retiring and running for office. He had faced and won a tough re-election fight brought about by his disregard for those who had been considered beyond the law in times past. He was also the grandfather of two small boys.

Kincannon, like most judges an ex-lawyer, knew that that circumstance would make it harder, not easier, for Walters to prosecute this case.

Kincannon carefully formed no opinion on the defendant's guilt or innocence, as that was for the jury to decide. But he had formed an opinion on the nature of this trial: it was going to be a bitch. Murder trials always were, when the victims were children. This case had the added complication of the internet as a weapon, and when those two combined, they attracted the press in the same way that a bowl full of overripe fruit seemed to draw flies.

The defense and the prosecution were both present, the defendant herself resplendent in a day-glo orange jailhouse jumpsuit and a full set of manacles. Two guards sat directly behind her, in the first row of spectator seating.

Kincannon silently cursed. One of _those. _He hoped today would not be the day that a defendant flipped out and created a violent incident in his courtroom.

The judge took his seat on the bench and indicated that everyone else could be seated as well.

"In the matter of the State of Missouri versus Marian Nielson, this court will hear testimony in regard to the defendant's competency to stand trial. Are both sides ready to proceed?"

Walters and Landingham stood and replied that they were. The court psychiatrist's report was officially entered into evidence, and then Dr. Jarvis Louis was called to the stand. Kincannon knew him well, as he was the only court psychiatrist in tiny Jefferson County. Occasionally the defense had someone down from St. Louis, but Jarvis was a fixture in the courthouse.

All the time Louis was testifying that Marian Nielson understood the difference between right and wrong, and understood that her actions were illegal, Kincannon watched from the bench as Marian sat stone-faced. He had presided over dozens of murder trials. Very few defendants shook him up, but he would be seeing that flat, emotionless stare in his nightmares for a long time to come. He was relieved to find her competent to stand trial and gavel the hearing to a close.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Marian Nielson sulked as the bus rattled to a stop at the county jail and she was marched back to her cell. Her hopes to be found incompetent and transferred to the nicer accommodations of a mental hospital dashed, she let the hovering cloud of her black mood fend off attempts at conversation as she sat down on her bunk and considered revenge against the judge, and that fag of a psychiatrist. Neither of them was higher on the list than Leah, though. She would kill Leah first.

During line-up for the next exercise period, she saw the check-bouncer three ahead of her. The very sight of the woman triggered Marian; it suddenly seemed the most natural, inevitable thing in the world to charge the redhead, and ram her, which knocked her down. She slashed her once across the face before the other women hauled her off the redhead and began to administer the justice of heel and toe.

Marian was an outcast; no mercy was required, to these women's way of thinking. She'd tried to kill her niece; she'd tried to kill her children; she'd ratted out the innocent and retarded Dawnie, her former cellmate. For any one of things they would try to kill her. For three, she'd die at their feet if they could make that happen.

They couldn't, though not for lack of trying: guards poured in. Guns were in evidence and the guards screamed at them all to get on the ground. The redhead was far too freaked out to obey and all Marian could do was hold her stomach and cough; the guards were less than gentle as they overcame this resistance.

After everyone was hauled back inside, "Nothing broken," the prison doctor said. "Take her wherever she's going." Marian went to the hole.

The hole: bare cell, ledge for sitting and lying down, toilet, sink, slot in the door for food. Marian would have no contact with anyone else until her three days were up.

It was just as well. It would save her cleaning up after her new cellmate, or any other duties for that matter.

That assault with a deadly weapon—maybe assault with intent to kill, if the prosecutor was feeling vindictive—had been added to her list of crimes made no difference to Marian. Only vengeance against that little bitch who had done her down, that Leah, would give her ease.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Damn! How can it be this cold this late in the year?"

Fred Pickert did not know the speaker, another photographer with his telephoto lens and tripod two down the line from Pickert's own. He shook his head.

His friend Henrik Berlinger, set up between the two of them, said in his heavy German accent, "Yah, but this is Nevada. Wait ten minutes, and it will change."

The obligatory laugh wafted across five or six of the photographers; roughly a dozen, as usual, were present.

Pickert said curiously to Henrik, "You sold anything to Pete Banks lately?"

"No," said the heavyset Berlinger, "he has become very choosy of late. You have to get close enough to see the nose hairs, he says."

Pickert snorted. "Be helpful if Transformers grew any," he said.

Berlinger grinned, and made an adjustment to his set up. "I wonder if we could get shots of what is in the truck they send out each weekday morning," he said quietly.

"I dunno," Pickert said with equal lack of volume, after a quick consultation with his Transformers Identi-kit. He'd made it himself; he got a little money by selling it to new photogs, to Transformer blogs, to the Transformer-obsessed, pro or anti.

He made a little incidental money by ambulance-chasing too, but that had to happen just right: he had to have the scanner on, he had to be close physically to someone else's disaster, and he had to possess less than the money he needed at the time; if all three of those were not true, he still might go if there was nothing good on TV at the time.

Henrik said, "What is to know? You follow them out of the base, you see where they go, and the next morning you are waiting with a camera. Yes?"

"Maybe. One of the Transformers usually involved is Ironhide." He flipped the Identi-Kit to the weapons specialist's page, and handed it to Henrik.

Who read it, pursed his mouth, and whistled. "But Freddie, listen. I do not have in mind annoying this Ironhide. Stop for a burger with me when we are done here, and we will talk about it."

"Sure. Margie's?"

"MacDonald's," Henrik said firmly; he knew he'd be paying.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Think I got it," Fred Pickert, adjusting his lens, said to Henrik Berlinger two days after their first conversation.

"Oh?" said Henrik. The two were alone on this very cold early morning.

"You know that bottleneck in Tranquility? Where Broome Road crosses Madison? The traffic there is so heavy in rush hour that usually, you need two lights to get through it if you're inbound. I thought we'd set up there, maybe, see if we can get close enough to see what's in that truck."

Henrik got a faraway look in his eyes. Pickert knew that this meant he was thinking, and maintained silence.

"What if," Henrik eventually said, "we set up along the sidewalk, and when they were stopped, got a shot inside?"

"How would we do that?"

"If the back is closed, I will yank up the canvas and you will stick a camera under it. We split the profits 50-50?"

"That'll work," Pickert said.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Two days after that conversation, a Thursday, Henrik Berlinger said, "Okay. There they are."

Henrik knocked down his telephoto setup in seconds (long practice) and put all the gear in his bag. By the time the deuce and a half from Mission City was ten blocks away, he had gotten out his more usual camera and used passing commuters to carefully choose a depth of field that allowed him good clear shots of both driver and passenger. He slapped the old battery out, a fully-charged one in, and Henrik was ready.

Beside him, Fred Pickert had done the same. Pickert also donned a head-mounted camera.

An ambulance came through, slowing still further the workaday pileup at Broome and Madison. After it had wailed itself into the distance along Broome, the deuce and a half was still two and a half blocks from their cameras. Its guard today was, as usual, Ironhide.

"Wanna walk down to it?" Pickert said.

"Part of the way only," Henrik replied. "Then we stop and begin an argument, yah? And when they are opposite us..."

Pickert smiled like a shark: he smelled blood in the water.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The deuce and a half was idling about twenty feet away when Henrik and Pickert began yelling: that happened right after they stopped and checked their depth of field and focus yet again.

The day was cold enough that the cars had their windows up; what they actually discussed was the merits of a new lens Henrik had been thinking of buying. But they did this with frowns and snarls: "Richards uses it, and he gets some good sales," scowled Henrik; Pickert snarled, "But most of his work is Las Vegas weddings." He made a violent gesture with one hand; neither of them had an "in" to that lucrative market. Gently, he shoved Henrik, who shoved him back.

The deuce and a half crept forward. Twelve feet, eight, five...

The two men stopped their argument and picked up their cameras, taking multiple shots of the deuce and a half, the driver, the guard in the cab, and Ironhide, who caused his hologram to scowl.

They stepped into the road in front of Ironhide, which proved their courage and total lack of common sense if it did nothing else.

Then Henrik yanked up the canvas flap, but being well-fastened, it did not come loose. It had enough give in it to allow Pickert to insert his camera and the upper quarter of himself into the back of the truck—

—where he came lens-to-bore with the business end of a rifle, held by perhaps the largest soldier Pickert had ever seen. He fired the camera twice anyway, but just then a very large metallic hand encircled him from the chest down, dis-inserted him, and yanked him off his feet and into the air.

Ironhide pulled the two photographers up close and very personal, and was somewhat annoyed when they continued to make their cameras whirr and buzz, filling up the space around them with electronic noise. "Stop that," he said.

This had no effect; the two continued to shoot. Both the humans were unaware of Miko sticking her own phone through the canvas, and shooting them right back.

Hide was somewhat puzzled by the two humans' reactions; he couldn't simply squeeze them until they were no longer a threat (he was perfectly capable of doing so, of course, but did not wish his foster-son to be filling out paperwork into the next century). He contented himself with holding them more tightly and uncorked a truly ferocious scowl, which they dutifully shot. Then he commed Prowl.

Standing orders: Unless the children would be safer elsewhere, the deuce and a half did not proceed without its Cybertronian guard. The driver found a parking space and pulled into it, sending word of where he was.

Prowl and Sideswipe arrived seven and one-half minutes later. Both photographers had run out of memory, four cards' worth, at that point.

Sides and the fresh driver and guard who were his passengers would take the kids and the deuce and a half on to school; the original driver and the guard were potential witnesses. Prowl sent to Ironhide, ::Put them down, but hold on to them until the human police get here. They're on the way.::

:Yessir,:: Ironhide sent. He accomplished this task by setting both humans down on the sidewalk, but not before he extruded a delicate digit and hooked it into the backs of their collars, and, more importantly, around the straps of their camera bags. If they skinnied out of that temporary plating the humans called "clothing," their gear would not go with them.

The police arrived. Miko kept shooting as the two mens' cameras were briefly confiscated.

Seven minutes later, both men, in handcuffs, were duly summoned to appear in court. The deuce and a half took off, with new guard, new driver, and Sideswipe in attendance. The kids all had a great story to tell, Miko had some shots that would eventually pay for her college education, and Colonel Lennox had a mass of excuses to sign. ("Please excuse [mail-merge field for student's name] for being tardy on April 12, 2012. An incident which might have compromised the safety of his or her transport to school occurred. This incident required resolution before any base child could reach school.")

Forty-two minutes after that, a bidding war began for the photographers' pictures.

Twenty-four hours later, each had sold seven pictures. Henrik's close shot of the nose hairs Ironhide did not have brought seven thousand; Pickert's sequence of the bore of a rifle, a closeup of a very large metallic hand obviously closed around the photographer's nether half, and an even closer shot of those non-existent nose hairs brought nineteen.

Miko's shots of Photographers in Trouble, most bearing some title related to "Idiots Among Us," had so far brought in her first and second years' tuition and board.

Those, of course, were not the only useable shots they got that morning, nor the only useable money they received for them.

The two men also got that summons, but that wasn't going to stop Fred Pickert.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Why not?" Fred Pickert said two days later. Henrik Berlinger had just shaken his shaggy head.

The burly fellow replied, "It is different for you, Freddie. You are a citizen. If I become a bad apple, they ship me back to Germany. I do not want to go."

"Damn, Henrik."

But the resident alien shook his head again. "Believe me, Freddie, I would if I could. That money was welcome."

"If you can help me set something up and not get involved, for a cut, will you?"

Henrik thought about it. "It would have to be foolproof. Too many ways for a thing like that to go wrong. I would be okay with being your ride, I think, but nothing else."

"I'll see if I can set it up that way," Pickert said.

End Part Twenty


	21. Chapter 21

Part Twenty-One

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The night of the Tranquility Middle School Spring Formal, Jack knocked on Raf's door. Fig opened it, said, "Hey, Jack, come on in. Raf'll be down in a minute."

Mrs. Fig grinned at him from the sofa. "You clean up pretty good."

Jack felt his ears go red. "Uh, thanks, Mrs. Figueroa." Jack's dress slacks and button-down shirt were nice enough for Tranquility's "upscale" restaurant, DeLucci's: Italian food that was not pizza, in other words. Miko had recently achieved the state of "between boyfriends," so they were doing the best-friends thing and commiserating over lasagna.

In Jack's opinion, Miko was going to be either disappointed with her current boyfriend, or between boyfriends, until she found someone who was strong enough to be a partner to her instead of a liability, steady enough to ground her, and adventurous enough to keep up with her. Miko was fifteen going on fifty, and would be fifteen going on fifty when she was forty-nine. (After that probably fifteen going on ninety, Jack figured.)

Raf came clomping downstairs in his shiny new shoes. The suit, a darkish blue, definitely made him look more mature, and taller, as well.

Stefania adjusted his tie for him, then got her phone to take pictures. "Have a good time, Raf."

_"Gracias, Tia."_

"Remember you still have a curfew. I want you back here by eleven o'clock."

"Yes, _tia_."

"Your cell phone is charged? Don't turn it off, Raf."

"I won't! The last thing I want is Prowl looking for me at the dance!"

Stefania grinned. "He would, too!" She bent to kiss his forehead. "I expect you to be a perfect gentleman with this girl, is that understood?"

Raf turned red. "Of course I will!"

Jack hid a grin.

Stefania patted Raf's shoulder. "Go on, you don't want to keep Sally waiting. And you, young man, drive carefully."

"Yes, ma'am," Jack said, and they got out of there more or less intact.

"_Parents_," Raf said with feeling, walking down the sidewalk. "Even when they aren't your real parents and you love them? _Parents_."

"I think it's their job to embarrass you. Even your friends," said Jack, which made Raf laugh.

"Yeah, sorry, Jack. Where did you park, anyway?"

"Where people won't be disturbed by Miko blasting metal. She broke up with that kid today."

"I didn't like him."

"None of her friends did. Left here, and half a mile into the desert."

Raf grinned, and they completed the trudge. The metal was still blasting when they got there.

Raf waved hello, which did not require turning the metal down. Miko waved back for the same reason.

There were worse ways to break up with somebody, Jack mused, and put the ancient hatchback in gear.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

It sounded like the party had started a little early when Jack pulled into the Vanderpools' driveway. Music was coming from the back of the house.

Mrs. Vanderpool, a tall, ice-blond, blue-eyed woman who had kept her model's looks into her forties, answered the door. "Who are you?"

"I'm Rafael Esquivel y Figueroa."

"This isn't a good time to clean the pool."

Raf flushed from collarbones to scalp. "Uh, ma'am, I'm Sally's date."

"Oh, really." She stood foursquare in the door. "Who are your friends? They don't look like they're in middle school."

"No, ma'am. This is Jack Darby, and Nakadai Miko. Miko-chan is a Japanese exchange student. They just gave me a ride over here."

"Oh. Sally and the rest are back by the pool." She looked at Jack in a way that made him think "cougar," but said only, as if the words were dragged out of her mouth, "You're welcome to go back too. There are some refreshments on the patio." She waved at a stone path, which set loose a floral scent of some kind.

"Thank you, Mrs. Vanderpool," Raf said, his eyes sparkling.

Miko played the exchange student to the hilt, with a demure bow and a softly spoken _"Domo arigato."_

Mrs. Vanderpool said, "Well, aren't you cute," and shut the door.

Jack and Raf exchanged glances, and Miko wrinkled up her nose.

The trio trooped around a stepping stone path through a carefully unarranged cactus garden, then through a head-high wooden gate into the back yard.

The grass was lush and green, and the plants in this area were not cacti but pots of glorious color, arranged to draw the eye to an in-ground pool, filled with clear, sparkling water: a single inflatable, pink and unicorn-headed, bobbed in it.

Several of Raf's classmates were dancing between the pool and the house to music from stereo speakers hung under the eaves of a wide back porch. That porch sheltered a comfortable sitting and dining area, as well as an outdoor kitchen which featured not just an elaborate barbeque grill but a four-burner gas stove _and_ its oven.

While Jack and Miko sampled the punch and cookies, Raf circled the pool to greet his date.

Jack sipped the punch, then scowled and tasted it again. "Miko, go easy on the punch: it's been spiked."

"I've had sake before."

"That isn't sake, and the minimum drinking age here is taken more seriously than in Japan."

"Okay. I'm not drinking any more of it. Should we narc them out?"

"I'm not going to, but maybe we should hang around and give Raf a heads-up if he gets near the punch bowl. I doubt he'd recognize the taste." He scowled again. "They're only middle schoolers. Ridiculous."

"I know. And if they smell alcohol on them at the dance, there's going to be trouble."

"Yeah, I know," Jack said. "But that's not our circus and not our monkeys."

At least, he thought, there was no danger of any of these kids driving a car.

Raf, however, paid little attention to the punch bowl.

Sally stood with her friends Julie and Madison, but Raf barely noticed the two of them. Sally was wearing a sleeveless pink dress with swirling patterns of tiny rhinestones around the full skirt. She walked confidently in stiletto-heeled pink sandals, experienced pageant competitor that she was; the other girls teetered about on kitten heels.

Raf walked toward her, only peripherally aware of all the other kids turning to watch. "You look wonderful, Sally," he said: neither more nor less than the truth.

Sally's smile changed, and made him feel queasy for some reason that Raf could not quite explain.

He heard a stifled giggle. Uncertainly, Raf took a step forward. "Sally...?"

Her beautiful, perfect face altered subtly into something else altogether, and she said, "Raf, I'm not going to the dance with you. You see, you're a geek, and I'm a cheerleader."

Raf turned white, frozen. Sally smirked and laid her hand on Dean Hayworth's arm. "It's getting late. We should go."

Raf's world turned red. This man had taken _his_ woman.

All of Raf's cultural upbringing dictated the next thirty-eight seconds. With a bellow Jack couldn't understand, beyond "You took my woman!", Raf launched himself at Dean, who sidestepped the smaller boy's first swing, laughing at the idea of someone Raf's size challenging him. The other kids shrieked and catcalled.

Miko yelled, "Hey! What's going on?"

Jack pushed a chair out of the way and waded through the crowd, bulling his way through a group of younger boys and planting his weight when one of them tried to shove back. Thereafter they parted like the Red Sea, just as Raf landed a hard punch to Dean's midsection.

Dean Hayworth was usually a fairly laid-back sort, an athlete who kept himself in shape year-round out of pride: but that punch! A kid this small packing that kind of power was unheard of in Dean's world, and a sudden and imminent danger.

He maneuvered the little geek until the kid's back was to the pool, set his feet, and landed one good hit to the boy's shoulder, immediately below and inside the place where the clavicle meets the scapula and humerus.

Raf flew backward, almost getting his feet under him. But the last step he took was too far over the edge of the pool, and his heel dropped, which overbalanced him. Arms flailing, Raf went in over his head.

The others, save Jack and Miko and Dean, roared with laughter. Dean went after Raf, not to continue the fight, but to make sure he was on his way out of the pool.

Raf surfaced, then had to dive again after his glasses.

Jack leant a hand and pulled the boy out; for a moment it occurred to him to wonder how Raf had known where his glasses went. How had he found them when he could hardly see without them?

Then he saw the look on Raf's face, and forgot all about that.

Miko had taken a position between the kids and the side of the pool, and none of them made a move in her direction: she was visibly and obviously itching to karate the boys into the next county, or ruin the girls' hair. Without turning her head, she asked, "Are you two OK?"

Jack said, "I think so. Let's get the hell out of here." He turned his head to Sally's cohort, and looked them up, and down, and up again. Then he focused on Sally, and said, "You little twerp. You're a real piece of work, you know that? And your friends aren't any better than you are."

He was close enough to a grown man that the complete disgust in his voice silenced them. No one said another word until Miko let the gate clang shut; then the hushed voices started up again.

They got to the car. Jack said to Miko, "See if there are still some of those beach towels in the back from the last time we all went to the lake."

Miko opened the hatchback and rummaged behind the back seat. "Here's one."

Raf took it and wrapped it around himself, then objected, "I'll get the seat all wet."

"It'll dry, Raf. Less important than getting you home, OK?"

Raf nodded, climbed in, and huddled down into a lump of sodden misery. Miko climbed over the back seat and plopped down next to him, in the middle row, reaching over to ensure that the door he leaned against was locked.

"Miko, tell me you didn't take pictures of that," Raf begged in a choked voice.

"No, no, I didn't even think about it. And if I had pictures of it, Raf, I'd be deleting them right now. I was afraid they were going to turn into some kind of rabid bitch pack or something. Not cool, bro."

"'S OK," Raf muttered.

"No, I meant _they_ weren't cool. That girl, Raf? I know it doesn't seem like it right now, but pretty though she might be, you can do a _lot_ better than that little..." a string of Japanese words which did not sound remotely polite followed, then Miko blushed. "Sorry. I don't know the English for that."

"You don't need to. We get the picture," Jack said drily, "and we agree."

Raf said nothing, huddled under the beach towel, and did not look up until they parked in front of his family's quarters.

Jack and Miko, one on each side, walked him up to the door. When he fumbled the key, Miko took the wet keyring from his unprotesting fingers and unlocked the door. She knocked on the door frame and called, "Mr. Figueroa! You home?"

"Yeah, coming—_maldito! _What happened?"

Raf ducked under Fig's arm, reaching to embrace him, and ran upstairs, dropped the beach towel halfway up, and slammed bedroom door shut.

Fig turned to the older kids with steel in his gaze. "Jack, what happened?"

"We took Raf to Sally Vanderpool's place; all those yard apes she hangs with were by the pool. She set Raf up so she could dump him in front of all her friends. She never intended to go to the dance with him."

"What? What kind of little—" He closed his mouth with a snap, cutting off the uncomplimentary and unprintable term that came to mind, to Jack's great disappointment. Fig made a long arm and handed the soggy towel to Jack. "How did he get wet?"

"He got into it with Dean Hayworth, the guy the little...uh, _Sally_ was going to the dance with. Raf was yelling something about stealing his woman. He, uh, punched Dean pretty hard, and Dean, well, Dean punched him into the swimming pool. One hit to the shoulder."

"_Ay Dios mio._ Thank you for bringing him home. I'll talk to him." Fig dug out his wallet. "I know Raf was going to give you a couple of bucks for gas, Jack. Will this cover it?"

Jack saw Andrew Jackson's face on the bill, and said, "No, sir, that's too much. Raf and I agreed on two dollars."

"The two of you take it. Have a good time; thanks for taking care of my boy. Raf'll be better when you see him next time."

Jack accepted the bill and handed it to Miko. "Do you need us to watch the little kids or anything?"

"Thanks, no. Stefania is in the back yard with them."

"All right. Tell Raf we're sorry, please. We didn't tell him that, and I hope he knows, but..."

"I'll do that," Fig said. "You are good friends to him, and I thank you for it."

Miko said, "It's easy to be Raf's friend. He's a great guy, Mr. Figueroa."

"Thank you." The young people let themselves out, and, muttering under his breath, Fig went upstairs.

Fig found Raf's door locked, and heard muffled sobbing from inside. He knocked. "Raf?"

There was no answer.

"Rafael? Open the door, _hijo_, let me see you."

After a moment, the knob rattled, then the door swung open. Raf's soaking-wet suit lay in a heap on the floor between his bed and Juan's, and he was wearing pajama pants. A bruise was forming where Dean had punched him, but it was no worse than some the two older boys had taken in martial arts training.

Fig picked the sodden suit up off the floor. "Let's go down to the kitchen and get you some ice for that, buddy."

"I'm OK." Raf didn't look at his uncle. He'd returned immediately to his bed, pulling his feet up too, and wrapped his arms around his shins.

Fig sat down next to his nephew, on a damp bed. "Jack told me what happened. I'm sorry, Raf."

The next words Raf spoke broke Fig's heart. "I thought she liked me." His nephew began to cry.

Fig put his arm around the boy's thin, shaking shoulders. "Someone who would do a thing like that to you? You're better off without her, _hijo_. I know it's hard when your woman does you wrong, but that's on her, not on you. This is her loss."

_"Si_, that's what Miko said_._ Mine too, though."

"I know. It hurts; I know that too. It happened to me a lot of years ago. But it will get better, _hijo, _and you'll find someone else. Someone smart enough to understand all the things you like to talk about, someone who will like the same kind of books and movies. Someone who is right for _you._"

Raf hiccupped and sniffled.

Fig kept his arm around Raf's shoulder. (Bones like a bird, he was thinking. Tiny, delicate. Still, some real muscle.) "Some little tramp like that is not worth getting into a fight over, especially not with a guy twice your size. You could've drowned if you'd hit your head. Let him have _la putita."_

Raf laughed a little in spite of himself at the profanity. "I guess..."

Fig rose, and stretched down a hand. "Come on, now. Ice, or you won't be moving that arm in the morning."

_"Si, Tio."_

Raf allowed himself to be guided to the kitchen, where he sat at the table while Fig cracked a couple trays of ice into a plastic bag and wrapped that in a dish towel. The ice did make Raf's aching shoulder feel better.

Stefania exclaimed over the bruise. "What kind of person allows this to happen at a thirteen-year-old's dance party? I will call that _madre di putita_, that Gina Vanderpool, and give her a piece of my mind."

"Spare yourself, Stefania. She has nowhere to put it." (Raf snickered a little.) "Apples don't fall far from their trees. These Vanderpools may have money, but they are still trash. They have no honor. Better to just forget about them," said her husband. "Let the trash go to the dump."

Raf smiled at that one too.

"I know, I know." Stefania caressed Raf's tearstained face. "I wish the _putita_'s parents all the joy of having her for a daughter. Do you want me to fix you something to eat, _mi tesoro_?"

Raf's eyes dropped. "I don't know if I could right now. I'm sick to my stomach."

"It will calm down. I'll make you some sandwiches later when you're feeling better."

_"Gracias, Tia."_

Later, after putting on a shirt to play Army men with Juan and Pedrito, and getting through about half the sandwiches _Tia_ Stefania made for him, Raf returned to his room, and signed into his computer.

Sally's betrayal had stopped playing through his mind once he had to concentrate on Dito's games with the Army men. Dito was still young enough to think the rules should always be interpreted in his favor, and Juan sometimes took advantage of that.

The computer, though: Raf had been trying unsuccessfully for several days now to get into a database that would give him information about his mother's work history. A word to a certain saboteur who would remain nameless behind his silver paint job had resulted in the address of a computer within the Social Security administration, as well as some very practical advice about getting into said computer without setting off every alarm inside the Beltway. However, this nameless saboteur specified, it was necessary to wait until it was well after quitting time in Washington to get in, get what he needed, then erase evidence of intrusion while no one was likely to notice. Midnight Washington time on a Friday night? Perfect.

Raf typed the address, took a deep breath, and dived in.

He was very aware that he was breaking a lot of laws, and possibly inviting the attention of Homeland Security, so he got in, located and copied a spreadsheet of dates and origins of his mother's Social Security contributions, and then identified the employer ID number of the last few payments.

That company, National Solar Industries, was located in San Diego, California. Shaking with nerves, Raf covered his tracks and got out of there.

He suspected that she had moved because her new job paid almost three times as much as her previous one. It made sense; that was a good reason to leave a job _mama_ told his grandmother she enjoyed.

He began searching local newspapers and the company web site, but found nothing for a Teresa Esquivel.

Then he realized what he was doing wrong. His mother's full name was Teresa Maria Figueroa y Alviar de Esquivel, but in general use she had always gone by the American convention and simply used the name Teresa Esquivel. (By the same token, Raf's name was Rafael Jose Esquivel y Figueroa.) Just using their first names and Santiago's surname was simpler than explaining traditional Spanish naming conventions to Anglos. In order to reclaim her maiden name, however, all Teresa had to do was drop the "de Esquivel" and go back to her own names, Figueroa for her father and Alviar for her mother.

Teresa Maria Figueroa y Alviar...

He waited while NSI Inc.'s computers worked, but there were no active employees by that name.

Had she quit that job too?

Again, he paged over to the tab where he had the San Diego newspaper's web site, and typed her maiden name into the search box.

Raf waited while the search engine worked. The computer on the other end was extremely slow, but two results came up.

_**Local Woman Killed in Hit-Skip Collision on San Diego Freeway**_

_June 3, 2011 Staff_

_Southbound traffic on the San Diego Freeway was stopped for nearly an hour this morning while emergency crews responded to a serious accident near the Kumeyaay Highway interchange. Witnesses reported that a pickup truck fishtailed and struck a 2010 Chevrolet driven by Teresa Figueroa, 29, of San Diego. The Chevrolet rolled several times before striking a semi-truck driven by Yee Chen Wei, 42, of Mission Viejo, California. The pickup truck left the scene. Wei was transported to UCSD Medical Center, where he was treated and released. Figueroa was pronounced dead at the scene. Anyone having information about the driver of a red 2008 Ford F-150 extended cab pickup driven by a male Caucasian, red hair, in his 20s, should call the San Diego Police. Police report that the truck will have extensive damage to the rear passenger side._

Thinking that there had to be some kind of mistake, Raf went back to the search results and clicked on the second tab.

It was an obituary, and the picture was undeniably of his mother. She was smiling, sitting in what appeared to be a coffee shop. It looked like the photo had been cropped from a larger picture. Her coworkers had arranged for her funeral and burial in San Diego. There was no mention of any next of kin.

No mistake.

How could his _mama _have been dead for nearly a year, and he hadn't known? What was wrong with him that he hadn't known?

What was wrong with him that she had abandoned him in the first place? What was wrong with him that his _papa _had farmed him out to his aunt and uncle? What was wrong with him that Sally had thrown him aside like a piece of garbage? Why was he never good enough?

Raf felt as though there were an iron band around his throat that somehow squeezed his heart too. Grief was a physical pain. He would never see his _mama _again; his _papa_ had made it clear that Raf would never see him again, either.

If he had been a good son, she would have stayed with him, and she would still be alive. Whatever was wrong with him had killed her. How long until he destroyed everything else that mattered?

He closed his laptop, and through his tears, his eyes fell on the box of small tools that he used to work on electronics. His hobby knife lay on top, waiting only for the blade to be extruded.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Except for little Dito, bedtime was generally suspended in the Figueroa household on Friday nights. Netflix or family game night was often on the agenda.

Juan and Anita were cutthroat Monopoly players. Catalina had grown bored with the battle for Park Place, and lay on the floor, happily occupied with her coloring book and crayons.

Suddenly, in the way of six-year-olds, she had to go to the bathroom. Catalina put her things on the counter, so Juanito wouldn't stomp on her crayons with his big stinky feet, and climbed the stairs.

The bathroom door was shut. She waited a full thirty seconds—a long time for a six-year-old who _had_ to go. The she pounded on the door. "Hurry up!"

The door was not locked. It swung open.

Broad swaths of red ran over the white tiles and porcelain fixtures, and a big splash covered much of the half-closed shower curtain. Catalina pulled the curtain back, and saw, for a split second only, Raf collapsed in the bathtub with a huge cut in his forearm.

She stumbled back two steps and started to scream at the top of her lungs. _"Mama! Papa!"_

At the table downstairs, Fig's chair crashed to the kitchen floor as he burst through the kitchen door, crossed the living room in two long strides, and charged up the stairs three at a time, with Stefania only a moment behind him.

Catalina was standing in the bathroom, still screaming, eyes impossibly wide and white.

"Catalina! _Que pasa?"_

Still screaming, she pointed at the tub.

Fig handed her off to Stefania, pulled his combat knife from his boot, and shoved in. His first mad thought was that there was a Decepticon in the bathroom and that it had harmed his daughter; he entered the bathroom as a fully-lethal force of nature, intent on deactivating a creature four to five times his own size, and many times stronger.

Instead, he found Raf soaked in blood, which still pulsed weakly from long, narrow gashes in his forearms.

Fig yanked a towel off the rack, cutting and tearing two strips from it. He looked around wildly and grabbed two toothbrushes from the sink. He shouted at Stefania, "Call the OD, get a medic right now!"

She had left her cell phone on the game table. Raf's was lying on his desk. She grabbed it and pushed the emergency button, which connected her immediately to the desk of the Officer of the Day. With her child screaming, and Fig cursing in English, Spanish and broken Cybertronian, she shouted over the racket, "This is Stefania Figueroa! My nephew needs a medic! Hurry, we're upstairs in the bathroom!"

Fig looped the towel strips around Raf's arms and used the toothbrushes to twist them mercilessly tight, until the bleeding stopped. He shouted at Raf, "Stay awake! Don't you dare pass out!"

Too little, too late. Fig scooped up his nephew's limp body and raced downstairs with him.

Lights and sirens screaming, Ratchet pulled up to the curb in his alt form, and June Darby bailed out just as Fig burst through the front door.

"Put him on the gurney in the back! When did this happen?"

"Just now, he was still semi-conscious when I found him!"

"Let's go, Ratch, we need to get him back to medbay!"

Ratchet slammed his rear doors shut and Fig held on for dear life. Jack's mother sliced off Raf's bloodsoaked PJ pants and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his leg. She reported Raf's pulse and blood pressure with her communicator, calm and crisply efficient as the seasoned flight nurse she was, and requested that two pints of universal-donor blood be made ready for their arrival: a request Ratchet okayed as soon as it was entered into the database.

She and Ratchet's remote pushed the gurney into the human side of medbay. Ratchet transformed as soon as the humans were clear and, once Raf was transferred to the table, subspaced his gurney to get it out of the way.

Leaving the remote to assist as a hastily summoned Dr. Parker barrelled in, still yanking her scrubs into place over pale-blue ducky pajamas, Ratchet gently barred Fig from the triage area. "Let's go back into the Commons, right outside, and give the doctor room to work."

The man struggled in his grip, frantic. Ratchet had seen that in a lot of parents of a lot of species, his own included. "Raf! Is he—?"

"Fig, he'll survive," Ratchet said, kneeling to make eye contact with the distraught man. "You found him and stopped the bleeding in time. You saved his life."

"Are you sure? He's so small, and there was so much blood before I got there—"

"I'm sure. He'll be okay, Fig."

A hundred and sixty pounds of muscle and willpower went limp in the medic's servos. "Why? Why would he do such a thing?"

"We'll have plenty of time to figure that out later. For now, your wife and children are frantic; I can feel their energy fields from here. You need to take care of them, and let them know that Raf is going to be all right." Ratchet set Fig gently on his feet, and nodded to the ER entry.

Fig looked up, and saw Stefania carrying Dito at a dead run, the other kids pelting along behind her.

Other faces appeared and disappeared in the clear plastic that formed the upper half of the human entry into medbay's ER, but their owners didn't enter, knowing they would be chased out. Ratchet's emergency run had alarmed everyone.

Fig gathered his family close.

A couple of corpsmen brought wet rags and towels to clean him off, making sure no one else was wounded. Walker Mayhall, a police chief in his former life, took their reports—streaming everything to Prowl as he did so.

Fig hauled out his slightly bloody cellphone, and dialed Dr. Lou Ella Boggs. Then they did the only thing they could do: waited while the seconds ticked by.

End Part Twenty-One


	22. Chapter 22

Part Twenty-Two

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

In the next building over from Admin, Diarwen had just finished her notes for the next morning's circle. She reached for the data pad containing some Praxian folk tales that she was translating, courtesy of Prowl and Bluestreak, just as Ratchet roared past with his siren wailing, and skidded into the admin building.

She jumped from her chair as Optimus' peds hit the floor. "What is going on?"

"A moment, my lady," he said, optics unfocusing as he concentrated on his comms. The answer was brief, and obviously unsettling.

Diarwen could sense a serious upset in the ambient aura centered on the admin building, where Ratchet had just gone. She focused her awareness in that direction.

Like any High Priestess worth her salt, she was connected to all her students. Like any proper Seelie Sidhe, she habitually muted those connections unless it was her business to listen to them. Ratchet on a tear was sufficient reason to investigate.

"Oh, no! Optimus, something terrible has happened to Raf Esquivel! I must go—"

"Diarwen, Diarwen, wait. Yes, something terrible has indeed happened, but it is under control. A moment, while I determine just what I am free to tell you."

"A moment only, _acushla_, or I am going."

It took only a moment indeed for Optimus to consult the regulations which ruled daily life on the Mission City Base.

Optimus' optics refocused on his Consort. "All right. Diarwen, you are responsible to the Army for everyone's safety at the circle meetings and in the practice sessions which you supervise, is that correct?"

"Yes, as a civilian contractor it is. It is certainly my responsibility regardless to see to it that my students are learning in a safe manner."

"This is a matter of privileged information, but you have a legitimate need to know for purposes of ensuring Rafael Figueroa's safety. A few moments ago, he attempted to commit suicide."

"Oh, no...no." Her face fell into lines of sorrow.

Optimus sighed. "I am allowed to give you only the minimum amount of information that you need in order to carry out your mission, so, erring on the side of caution, I do not believe that I am at liberty to tell you any more about the incident itself. But I think it appropriate to tell you that Ratchet is as certain as anyone can be that he was found in time, and he should recover."

"Oh, gods. Is there anything that I can do to help? Should we go over there?"

"I think we contribute more by staying out of the way at this point. Ratchet will inform me immediately if we are needed."

Diarwen returned to her seat, her face still drawn. "_Acushla_, I saw no indication of this. Just this morning, he was fine. I do not understand. How could I have missed such a thing?"

"You know as well as I do, my beloved, that not everyone gives signs. Sometimes we never know the reason why, and there is nothing that we could have done."

"He is but a child."

"I know, my love."

"What if I missed something? What if I could have stopped this, and failed?"

"Come here, Diarwen."

She stepped into his palm and he lifted her to his spark, where she laid her cheek against his chest plate and he wrapped her in his fields. "My love," his deep voice rumbled all around her, "I do not believe you missed anything. But if you did, then you will learn from it, and you will not make the same mistake again."

There was wisdom and old, old sorrow in that statement, Diarwen knew. Optimus was always aware of the mistakes that he had made as Prime—opportunities missed, trust misplaced—and he might never know how much of the responsibility for the fall of Cybertron lay at his peds. But he had not allowed his responsibility for that sorrowful past to hinder him from his duty in the present.

The only thing to be done about a mistake, no matter how painful the consequences, was to pay its price and learn from it. And after that, never to allow its lesson to go to waste. Diarwen sighed, and let her tears begin to fall.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The Figueroa family was surprised when Dr. Boggs arrived in the Commons ten minutes after Fig had called her, hair pulled back into an elastic band, not made up, and out of uniform: a casual shirt and pants.

Fig rose to his feet. "Dr. Boggs! We didn't expect you. I thought we'd hear from you tomorrow."

"Seemed more urgent than that." Boggs looked at Dito, half-asleep in his mother's arms, at Anita, Catalina, and Juan. "Look, can you two big kids take care of the little ones for a couple of minutes? I need to talk to your parents for a minute, and then we can all talk together."

Juan casually stepped to his mother, took his sleeping brother from her, and said "Sure. Nita, get Catalina's hand."

Fig, who had been keeping it together for everyone else, felt the tears start from his eyes, turned away from his children, and gestured blindly at a chair-and-table group further into the commons.

"You've got good kids," the doctor said, as they sat. She scuffled in her bag for a small pack of tissues, which she passed without comment to Fig, pushing one toward Stefania too. Then she took out a notepad.

"When there's a suicide attempt, the base is under orders to call me. That call came to my private line, about ten seconds before yours came to my office line. Anyway, I'm here because you'd be surprised just how much early intervention can accomplish. To help Rafael move beyond this, we need to start now."

Both Fig and Stefania flinched at the word "suicide," she noted. They looked at one another, and then Fig sighed and made eye contact with the shrink. "Best call it what it was."

"Yes. I'm sorry."

Stefania began to cry quietly. "But...doesn't he know we love him? Wasn't that enough?"

"Mrs. Figueroa, it's my experience that sometimes, even great love is not enough."

Both the Figueroas began to cry. Dr. Boggs knew when to let that happen.

The couple mastered themselves after a few minutes, clasping each other's hands tightly. Boggs said, "I have the records sent to me whenever I have to do this. So a short time ago Rafael was started on an antidepressant. Tell me what persuaded you to try that."

Fig looked surprised. "You think that..."

Boggs said, "It's a little early for me to be thinking anything. I'm just trying to get a sense of who Rafael is, because I've never met him."

The Figueroas looked at each other, and then Fig said, "A friend of his reported to another adult that Raf was not willing to do some computer work for the friend until Saturday. That alone is not like Raf; he loves computers. It's also not like him to misplace the detail that the other boy needs his laptop for school." Fig sighed. "I got Ratchet to give him a quick scan, and that's when we decided on the antidepressant." He looked up quickly. "It couldn't be that, could it? The medicine? I know we have to watch him because sometimes it makes things worse."

Dr. Boggs said calmly, "Given the date of the scrip it would surprise me, but I will insist that blood be drawn or a scan run to be absolutely sure we can rule it out. Those meds take a long time, usually four to six weeks, to build up to therapeutic strength in the system."

"Oh." Fig's shoulders drooped. "Well. Earlier this evening, Raf was to take the girl he has his first crush on to a dance. She turned out to be leading him on, so that she could dump him semi-publicly, in front of all her friends. But after he came home, Raf cried a little, I put some ice on his shoulder where her boyfriend hit him, and he played Army men with our youngest and oldest. When the youngest went to bed, Raf went to his room, the one he shares with Juan. I knew he wasn't over it, but I didn't think..." Fig trailed off, and stared straight ahead of himself.

"I see," said Dr. Boggs. "Mrs. Figueroa, how badly was he upset by this girl's machinations?"

"It was a terrible wound to his pride, and a great hurt to his heart. But after Jorge and I talked to him, he was able to smile a little. He was still hurt, of course, but I think the wound to his pride was actually worse."

"I see. I know this is a stupid question, but in my experience the stupid questions you don't ask are the ones that come back to bite you. Your family is culturally Hispanic, is that correct?"

"_Si_," said Stephania, "and so is Raf's birth family."

Dr. Boggs looked up from her notepad. "Oh, he's not yours, biologically?"

"He is my sister's child," Fig said. "When her marriage broke up my worthless ex-brother-in-law asked me to take Raf. I don't know why Teresa did not."

"And does he fit in well with your family?"

"_Si_, exceptionally so. We didn't expect that we would be getting a little Einstein in the family, but that's very much who Raf is. When he first came to us there was a little trouble with Juan, our oldest, who is a year younger. But Raf's solution to that was simple and very ingenious: whenever he could, he yielded to Juan. When he could not, he made it clear why, and worked with him to find a mutually acceptable solution." Fig gave a wintry smile. "That was not always easy; Juanito has my temper. But Raf persevered, and the two have become very good friends."

"Who are his other friends?"

"Jack Darby, whose mother works at the base, and some boys from school. They are all in various science clubs. I only know the first names," Stefania said. "Grey, Nathan, Martin. There's a girl in one of the clubs too but I can't remember her name. And he studies with Diarwen's circle every morning."

Boggs' pencil got very busy. "How many clubs does he belong to?"

"Three. Computer, chess, and math."

"So he has a good circle of friends."

"Yes, he—"

But at that moment a scrubs-clad nurse approached them. "Mr. and Mrs. Figueroa? Raf is not awake, but Ratchet would like to have you come see him, and speak to you."

Dr. Boggs said, "You go ahead. If it's all right with you, may I speak to your children? I'll be careful not to upset them."

Fig hesitated. "I'd prefer to be there when you do that."

"Okay. I'll nominate myself for babysitter, if that's okay with you, while you're with Ratchet. We won't discuss what went on tonight until you're back."

"Thank you," Fig said, looking her straight in the eyes. "I appreciate that very much."

"It's what I can do for you at this point. I wish it were more."

Fig nodded, and he and Stefania went in to see Raf.

Their nephew looked very small and very defenseless, lying on a hospital bed with both forearms heavily bandaged.

Stefania cried out, "_Ay, mi tesoro!_" and arrowed to him, gingerly sliding one hand into his, the other going to stroke his forehead. Fig went to the boy's other side, and laid a hand over Raf's rather than picking it up. That arm had a thick line of red fluid leading into it: transfusion.

Stefania sobbed, and Ratchet, a benign presence in the background, let Raf's parents get hold of themselves. As it had with Boggs, this took a few minutes. Stefania was not in shape to hold a conversation with, he judged, and so he went to Fig's side of Raf's bed.

"Raf will be here only until tomorrow morning," Ratchet said softly.

Fig raised a tear-stained face. "We want him home, but how? Stefania can't watch him and tend to the other kids as well."

"No, not home. He'll be moved to Mission City Hospital, and as soon as the surgeons there consider him to be strong enough, he'll undergo surgery to repair a cut tendon. That probably will be Sunday, to be certain he is stable after all of this. The tendon repair will not be what is usually termed major surgery, but it is very fine work which can take some time. Once he leaves recovery and is released from the surgery unit, he will be transferred to the psychological unit." Ratchet hesitated, then added, "Also, Fig, they have the staff there to watch over a suicidal patient. Here, we really don't."

Fig bowed his head. "I don't understand why."

"Why he did it? When he wakes up, we can ask him. I don't expect that to happen before morning, and even then, he might not be able to make any long explanations. If he doesn't want to talk about it, we must not make him until the processor specialists—psychologists and psychiatrists, I mean—agree that it's the right time to do that. Go home, get your kids settled for the night, and one of you can sit with him if you like; I'll have a cot brought in. Otherwise, if you want to be here about six, he might wake up that early. Probably not before."

Fig raised his head. "Will you call me if he wakes?"

Ratchet said, "Absolutely. Before you leave, though, take a few minutes and tell him you love him. It's true he's out, but patients still hear. Reassure him, and then, Fig, go home with a clear conscience. You've done all you can, and I'll keep watch on your boy until you get here."

Easy enough to park his remote by Raf's bed.

Fig and Stefania stayed with Raf another twenty minutes. By the time the family got home, the clock said it was a quarter to midnight. Dito and his sisters had fallen asleep when Fig, with a sigh, pulled up in front of their house.

"Look," he said to Stefania, "I'm going to go in in the morning, or whenever Ratchet calls, okay? Once Raf is settled I'll send for you guys. All right?"

Stefania half-smiled to see her man almost back to his normal self. But the "almost" didn't fool her. "Yes, of course that's all right. I'll leave you a burrito in the refrigerator. You'll want to eat in a hurry on your way to see Raf."

"Can I come with you?" Juan said, from the back seat.

"I think it might be better if you were here to help your mom, please," Fig said, getting out of the car. "I don't know if Raf will even be awake yet. More to the point, I don't know what the hospital regulations are. You might have to be fourteen or so to get in."

Juan picked up Dito. "He didn't do this because of me, did he?"

"Did you have a fight with him?"

"No, nothing like that."

"Then I don't think so, Juanito. When you come see him later, he'll be awake. Will you carry Dito into the house?"

"Sure," said Juan. Fig and Stefania each got one of their daughters, and the little procession made its way into quarters.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen and Mikaela prepared for circle early the next morning, Saturday, April 14th.

This involved carrying equipment to the site, and setting it up, both to be accomplished before sunrise. They found, though, that Cybertronians had beaten them to the site: deep in meditation, Optimus Prime, Prowl, and Drift were visible only by the small lights that dotted each one's chassis.

The humans began to arrive by ones and twos. Shad and Evanon came in, talking about Jason's planned return in June, as soon as the Brierlys wrapped things up in New York; Diarwen shushed them, and they too sat to still themselves.

Then, Diarwen sensed a new aura coming up the path from the base—Lou Ella Boggs, the child psychologist who had been brought in to help with Amaranth when the Lennoxes adopted her. Boggs had quickly become indispensable where children were being raised in a small, very enclosed community, under constant threat from both the Decepticons and the human anti-Cybertronians, a designation which covered a lot of nutballs.

Dr. Boggs had not shown an interest in Diarwen or her circle before, though she had never seemed intolerant of it, either.

Diarwen left Mikaela to continue the preparations and stepped aside to speak with the psychologist, so that their conversation would not disturb those in meditation. "Welcome, Lou Ella Boggs."

"Thank you, Lady Diarwen," Boggs replied. "I'm sorry to disturb your gathering, but I need to speak with you privately about a matter of some importance."

Diarwen turned and led the psychologist a short distance away, scanning the scrub for scorpions as she did so. "Does this concern Raf Esquivel, Dr. Boggs?"

"Yes. How did you know that?"

"As his martial arts instructor, it is necessary for me to know if he is a hazard to himself, in order to insure his safety, as well as that of my other students. Therefore, when Optimus received word of his suicide attempt, he relayed that information to me." Diarwen chose a rock for a seat, and gestured Boggs to find another. "When he is ready to return, I would be indebted for your advice as to what precisely I am allowed to tell the rest of the circle. There is a balance between his privacy and how much information they need, and I confess I am not as familiar as perhaps I should be with military regulations governing patient privacy."

"I'll schedule a meeting with you before he returns to class."

"Thank you, Doctor."

Boggs gazed out over the dark desert away from base for a moment before she focused again on Diarwen. "Are you also his religious advisor?"

The Sidhe shrugged. "Only in the way that any martial arts teacher might be. I offer counsel when asked or when needed, and keep confidential anything he might ask me to, but I teach him no path."

Dr. Boggs' pen scriggled across a yellow notepad.

Diarwen stared pensively at the sand for a moment. "Doctor, has any reason for his actions come to light?"

Boggs shook her head. "We're still trying to get to the bottom of that, which is why I'm here. I asked Raf's guardians for permission to speak with you; they hoped you might be able to shed some light on why Raf did what he did."

"Of course I shall tell you anything I can."

"Did Raf confide in you about anything that might be troubling him?"

"No, he did not. He occasionally seemed distracted at the beginning of our practice sessions, but I attributed that to his busy schedule. In addition to attending our group, he has after-school activities almost every night. He has also told me that his homework load is heavy, but I believe this to be as much a measure of Raf's engagement with the task of learning as it is of his actual assignments."

Boggs nodded. "He never gave you any indication of great emotional pain?"

Deep regret stamped on her features, Diarwen shook her head. "Never. Raf showed me nothing yesterday morning, or the days leading up to that, which might have led me to believe he would consider ending himself. In fact, if anything, he has been very happy this last fortnight or so. I understand that he has been courting a young lady."

"Yes...apparently this crisis developed very rapidly last night, and what you've just said tends to confirm that."

"May I visit him?"

"You'll have to speak to his uncle to get permission. He's being moved to a hospital off base today."

The Prime Consort inclined her head.

"Lady Diarwen, had Raf been suicidal in your presence, do you think you would have known that about him?"

Diarwen became thoughtful. "That is a question that I have asked myself many times last night. I believe that I would have. I have been a warrior for many, many years, Doctor, and I have known those who were suicidal among both Sidhe and human warriors, though never a suicidal child. It has never been difficult for me to see that there was a problem. I do not believe that Raf became fixed upon his course until after he left me yesterday morning. Whatever terrible thing happened, I am nearly certain that it had not yet affected him when last I saw him."

"Thank you. You've been very helpful." Boggs rose.

Diarwen stood too. "Would you care to join us?"

"Yes, I would, but I'm afraid I must get back. May I take a rain check?"

Diarwen nodded. Social smiles, in this circumstance, were beyond her. "You are welcome at any time."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"You hear about Raf?"

There were still long shadows on the ground when the school-age kids on base gathered in the Commons to get on the bus Monday morning.

"A little. An accident, in a hospital in Mission City. You know anything else?"

"No. That's Juan coming; we better shut up."

Once they got to school, the base kids found themselves newly popular. By second period, they'd all been asked if Raf had tried to kill himself, and by third period, Juan had punched another kid. Once the principal heard both sides, he gave Juan the benefit of the doubt, and expelled the other kid for a day, reason: inciting a fight.

The boy whose locker was next to Jack's said casually, "It true that kid offed his whole family, then himself?"

Jack felt his temper rising. "He's hospitalized for surgery; had an accident. He'll be fine, and his family is fine right now. Where the hell did you hear that nonsense?"

The other boy shrugged. "Around."

Jack snorted and slammed his locker. Two minutes later, in a foul mood, he met Miko in the hall. She had on her pink GothLoli outfit today, which made him smile in spite of himself.

She put a hand on his arm and he bent down to hear her say, "I heard the awfullest thing! Some of these fools think—"

"I know. I just heard it. Keep to the party line, okay? He had an accident and he's hospitalized for surgery. The family's fine. That's all."

"I want to kick some of them." She fluffed her hair and readjusted an armful of books.

"So do I," said Jack, smiling down at her, "but if we do it'll make their nonsense seem more important than it is. Cool your jets."

Jack would learn later that several of his peers from the base reported the rumors to their parents or the OD. Some of them were afraid that Raf was dead and they hadn't been told.

June had told Jack all that she was allowed to on Saturday morning—that Raf was alive, and no longer under her care.

Nonetheless, he called her fifty minutes after he'd met Miko: from the timing, between classes. And in the background she heard lockers slamming and youthful conversation.

"Mom, these kids are going nuts! There's a rumor going around that Raf is dead and killed all his family! What am I supposed to tell them?"

"That your mother is more concerned about Raf's privacy than she is about a bunch of kids sticking their noses in where they don't belong. You can tell them he's alive, his family's alive and undamaged, and the rest of it is none of their business!"

"OK. Thanks, Mom. I don't want to get caught on my cell phone in school, so could you pass it up the line that the cat's out of the bag?"

"I'll take care of it. Jack, it'll be all right."

"Thanks, Mom. Love you."

"I love you too."

"Darby," said the principal, from half the hall away, "turn off that cell phone, _now_."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Two days later, the guard bot was that gold one Pickert hadn't got the name or armaments for. He looked an awful lot like the silver one who guarded the big one, Pickert thought, and took several shots of Sunstreaker.

Sunny transformed, stepped to within five feet of Pickert and bent down, inspecting the photographer closely if not looming, Pickert shooting all the while.

When the light changed, Sunny transformed back, and resumed his guard duty.

The conspiracy blogs paid very well for this series of shots.

Jazz assembled the relevant blog entries into a single document, which he forwarded to Prowl...who forwarded it to Optimus.

Who was patient. "Sunny..."

"Oh come _on_, Optimus! The guy's a fraggin' nuisance!"

Optimus folded his servos in front of him. "Nuisance he may be, but we do not need to do anything to add any more drama right now. And, if something were to happen, this sort of publicity has the potential to get us kicked off this world. I cannot permit that, Sunstreaker."

The use of his full name let Sunny know he'd lost. "Yes, Prime," he said, and endured the lecture that followed without really hearing any of it.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Look," Fred Pickert said patiently, "I've given you three freebies. That's all you get."

"But," the blogger whined, "I just need a little more help to get this thing to really take off!"

Pickert took his phone away from his ear and stared at it with revulsion, after making sure the camera function wasn't on. He had been to the caller's website and read what he was making of his three free photographs: a badly-thought-through hash, in fact, involving the Transformers, the Illuminati, and the Freemasons. Pickert knew of five other photographers who'd given this guy stuff; none of them had been paid. "I'm sorry," he said with a patience that surprised even himself, "but I've got rent to pay and groceries to buy, just like everyone else."

There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line. Then, fright dripping from the cell phone, the blogger said, "They got to you, didn't they."

"What? No, man. I've got a business to run, that's all."

"They got to you," the blogger whispered, and disconnected.

_Well, that took a turn for the weird_, Pickert thought, and turned back to the work the blogger had interrupted: a little constructive marketing of his stuff, involving more bloggers.

Some bought; more were reluctant. "This telephoto-lens crap really isn't setting you apart from all the other guys and their telephoto lenses. Those closeups you took a while ago—can you duplicate them?"

It took three repetitions of that message, but suddenly Pickert had the Big Idea. "Yeah," he said to his prospective purchaser, "but it'll take me a while to set it up."

"Any time you have shots like that, Fred, I'm game," the prospect said. "They're probably worth at least double the going rate. So you just lemme know."

He needed to be closer. Pickert spent some time wandering through memories of a long-ago summer morning spent face-down in handcuffs at Area 51. How long ago, exactly, had that been? If it was more than seven years, would the Feds have filed it into storage, effectively forgotten about it?

He couldn't find the answer. His greed got the best of him; he called Henrik with a proposition.

End Part Twenty-Two


	23. Chapter 23

Part Twenty-Three

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Between English and band, Sally Vanderpool basked in the only sun that mattered to her: attention.

She had waited for this, anticipating it, but it was even more delicious than she had hoped. Another few precious minutes of it were on the way, as the school band used the only music room for its daily rehearsal right before her music class.

"But...really?"

Sally didn't know the speaker, so she only inclined her head regally and said, "Yes. Dean punched him into the pool. For me."

Dean Hayworth had a very different interpretation of it, but didn't hear Sally, and so didn't contradict her. He said only, "I don't want to talk about it" to everyone who asked.

"That's so funny, though," said the girl Sally regarded as her only serious rival, "that you did that to him."

"Very funny," said the rival's wingwoman. They moved off.

Sally didn't like the girl's tone, and looked for her support, but Julie deMarco had dropped behind, and Madison Gentry was not really participating in the conversation. It really didn't matter, though Sally would punish them for it later, she thought; right now, there were plenty of other girls fluttering around her to listen.

The exiting flood of high school kids began. Sally paid no attention; someone had asked her to tell the story again, with details, and Sally was only too happy to oblige.

She first noticed something was wrong when the eyes of the girls in her audience widened.

Then a steel-hard hand closed over Sally's shoulder and propelled her against the wall forcefully enough to thunk her head solidly into its cement blocks.

"What did you just say about Raf Esquivel, you skanky little waste of good air?"

"I-I-Let me go, you crazy gook!"

Nakadai Miko let her go just long enough to backhand her across the face, which knocked her to the floor.

Sally saw the look in Miko's eyes, and for the first time, she was afraid for her life. She scuttled behind Dean Hayworth on her hands and knees. "Don't let her get me!"

Dean gave Miko an indecipherable look. "Miko, don't. Losing your green card for beating her up isn't worth it."

Sally's mouth dropped open as she crouched at his feet. "Dean, what are you _saying_?"

Dean turned to face Sally, who was climbing to her feet. "What you did to Raf Esquivel was way on the other side of too much. He's a human being, Sally, a status you have yet to achieve. We're not together anymore. Have a nice life."

Sally burst into tears and looked around, hoping to play the damsel in distress card with her sycophants. But Julie walked past her into the band room, followed by most of the other girls. Only Madison hesitated, and only for a moment; then she, too, walked on.

That was when Mr. Oliver came out. "All of you, get where you're supposed to be going! Not you, Vanderpool, Nakadai. My office, _now_."

They marched into band director's office and he shut the door loudly. "You," he said to Miko, "sit there." He pointed to the end of the sofa nearest the door. He picked up the chair by his desk, the seat in his office farthest from Miko's place, and turned it one-eighty. "You, there," he said to Sally, and pointed. She was, in his estimation, the one most likely to run, so she got the seat farthest from the door.

He himself perched against the arm of the sofa opposite Miko's end of it: between the two girls. He hoped it would give him enough time to intervene if one of the two went ballistic.

Sally started crying, while Miko sat staring straight ahead; the look on her face scared Oliver. Band kids rarely frightened their teachers, and Oliver had twenty years in Brooklyn schools behind him before he landed what he thought might be a plum job in Mission City.

First time for everything, he thought. "Explain yourselves. Sally?"

"I wasn't doing anything, I was just standing there talking to Madison when she came out of the band room and hit me and started calling me a skank!"

"Miko, is that true?"

"It is, although I grabbed her and pushed her against a wall in response to something she said."

Mr. Oliver thought that he'd seen a lot of stuff in those twenty years in Brooklyn, and this was pretty minor league. It was, however, very much out of character for Nakadai, who worked three times as hard as anyone else and was mature enough to take criticism well. "Nakadai, _why_?"

Miko had been dressed down by Will Lennox. She didn't flinch. "You may not know, Mr. Oliver, that Raf Esquivel has been hospitalized after a suicide attempt."

"I wasn't aware of that, no. He doesn't take a music class, but I've heard the science teachers speak of him with admiration. Go on."

"When I came out of the band room, _she_"—Miko twitched her head toward Sally, her tone rendering that single word into the phrase "that piece of filth"—"was bragging about how she tricked Raf into thinking that he was taking her to the dance last Friday, so that she could drop 'the little geek' in front of all her friends. Then she said he was so heartbroken that he tried to kill himself because he knew she was out of his league. A friend of mine, who also attends this school, and I were there when she pulled that stunt, and we helped get Raf home that night." She transferred two hostile pools of black to Vanderpool. "He trusted you, but to you, he was nothing. Just something to play with, not another human being."

"It was just a prank! How was I supposed to know he was messed up enough to kill himself?"

"That wasn't a prank, it was bullying. It was cruel to someone who really cared about you, though for the life of me I can't see why. And you know what? Dean's right about you. You are not worth losing my green card over. Raf is worth a dozen of you."

Mr. Oliver sighed. With her accusation of bullying, Nakadai Miko had just invoked the full force of the law.

Miko's head snapped around to Mr. Oliver; she did not see Sally Vanderpool lose what spine she had, her eyes focus internally, and her face crumple when she didn't like what she saw. But then Miko wouldn't have cared if she had.

"I admit that I slapped her, after she called me a gook. I'll take whatever punishment you feel is appropriate for that. But I will not apologize to her, and I want to know how this school is going to punish her for what she did to my friend."

The "gook" remark put it entirely on another footing yet again, Oliver realized. The Vanderpool girl had provoked Nakadai with a racial slur. Nakadai had not attacked her unprovoked...if the hospitalization of a friend could be called "unprovoked." Further, she was provoked in front of witnesses. He said only, "For fighting on my watch? Three day's detention straightening up the band room after school. I want you back here at three thirty on the dot, is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get to your next class."

Miko went, without sparing Sally another glance.

"Sally, how much of what she just said was true?"

It dawned on Sally then that all of it was true, and Mr. Oliver saw the damning confession in the expression on her face. He also understood, call it "teacher telepathy," that she was much more sorry for getting into trouble than she was for having done it in the first place. Her face crumpled and she wailed, "I-I-I...I w-w-w-want my daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaddy!"

"I'm sure the principal will have a few things to say to him too. Someone will take you to the nurse and get that eye looked at. I'll be along as soon as I find a replacement."

Sally's sobs in the background, the band director sighed, and called the school's resource officer to escort Sally to the nurse. When the man arrived, Oliver said, not troubling to move out of Sally's earshot, "Stay with her, please, Kyle. We have a situation here; I'll be speaking to the principal and then we'll see what further steps need to be taken."

"Sure thing, Mr. Oliver." The man jerked his head at Sally, her first encounter with being commanded, not asked, in a very long time. "Come with me."

Oliver sighed again, and dialed the principal's office for a stand-in. Sally's "prank" had nearly cost the Esquivel boy his life, and Oliver was certain the child would never be the same. The girl had probably ruined her own life as well. She wouldn't be able to compete in the pageants she valued so highly, and talked about incessantly, with a record.

Oliver shook his head. Sally was very young to be in such straits, but her parents, for all their money, had done a very bad job of raising the girl.

They might suffer with her, though it was his experience that such parents did not. Sally would pay the price of their negligence alone.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Your husband is in Reception, Mrs. Vanderpool," one of the attendants said.

"Oh? Thank you," Gina Vanderpool replied. She finished changing after yoga class, and fluffed up a bit before going out to meet Marcus. Perhaps he would take her to lunch, which he sometimes did when they needed to discuss an issue outside the office. If not, well, twice a work week she had yoga instead of lunch.

Her step faltered just a bit when she saw him. Marcus was in a thundering rage, which never boded well; he stood staring at nothing in his beautifully-cut suit, hard-muscled and flat-bellied, jingling the coins in his pocket. He looked every inch the powerful businessman, or at least the largest fish in the small pond of Tranquility.

He grabbed her arm, hard, and hustled her out, barely allowing Gina to catch her balance. "Marcus! What's going on?"

"It's that damned daughter of yours," he snarled through clenched teeth. "Where's your car?"

Whatever the problem might be, it was severe. He'd taken a taxi from work to her spa, not called for his driver; and Sally was Gina's daughter, not "our kid."

"This way," she said. "Let go of my arm."

Gina walked, taller than her husband by an inch, far less gray and steady as a rock in her highest espadrilles, to her late-model BMW, and got in the driver's side. Marcus had lost his license two years ago after his third DUI.

Marcus slammed the passenger door shut, and growled, "Sally's school. The little bitch has gotten herself in trouble so bad we have to come and get her."

"Trouble? Sally? No! She's focused on that pageant next month!"

"Well then, you and she can both un-focus on it. From what I'm told, she'll be lucky to stay in school."

"Is she hurt?"

"I don't know."

"What _happened_?"

"They wouldn't tell me over the phone, just ordered me to come and get her. They couldn't reach you."

"We're asked to turn our phones off for the last twenty minutes of yoga class."

"Find another teacher," he snapped.

An order to an employee, not a request to his wife. Gina sighed, and backed the car out.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

When Gina parked, Marcus held out his hand. "Give me your comb," he said.

She dug it out and handed it over, checking her makeup as he ran her comb through his short hair. They got out of the car together, as Gina knew he wouldn't offer her the courtesy of opening her door when he was this enraged. He did wait for her to catch up with him before they started the long walk into the school grounds.

But then Gina knew the way; Marcus did not. She had come here for her daughter's recitals and cheerleading performances and her sixth-grade graduation. Marcus was always working. And to him, that was more important than any milestone in young Sally's life.

He opened the door marked "Office" for her, which rather surprised Gina. But they were no longer alone, and in public, he took care always to be scrupulously polite to her.

Fine. She'd settle for the temporary peace. Once they got back into the car it would evaporate into more acrimony, but not here.

"We're Sally Vanderpool's parents," Marcus snapped at the receptionist.

"Have a seat, please," the receptionist said, rising. "I'll let Principal Jones know you're here."

Principal Jones let them wait for five more minutes, and then a young Asian girl came through the office door with steam coming out of her ears. She favored Gina, who did not remember her, with one long, hot stare and left the office. Principal Jones opened her door, and said, "Mr. and Mrs. Vanderpool? Please come in."

Marcus Vanderpool shut the door behind his wife and said, "What is going on here?"

Principal Jones had been a teacher for twelve years before taking this post. She had talked to a lot of parents who were unhappy and looking to blame it on everyone except their kid or themselves in that time; she was unimpressed by Marcus Vanderpool. "Have a seat," she said, gesturing them to the conference table.

She let them sit, then took a place opposite both: one of the benefits of a round table. She opened the file folder before her. "I have spoken with several students here, and the facts of the matter seem to be that Sally encouraged another student here to pay attention to her. She got him to come to your home on Friday night, thinking that he was to take her to the school dance. Instead, Sally dumped him in front of all her friends, and her boyfriend pushed the child into your swimming pool."

Marcus shrugged heavy shoulders. "So what? That happens in middle school."

"The boy attempted suicide later that night."

"Again, so what? Sally's not responsible for another kid's crackup."

Principal Jones looked Sally's father straight in the eye. "What Sally _is_ responsible for is boasting to her social circle that she had the boy so enslaved that he attempted suicide. When another student, a friend of the boy's, challenged her on that point, Sally referred to her using a racial slur. At that point, the other student struck Sally."

Marcus crossed his arms in front of his chest. "None of that so far sounds to me like Sally's problem. In fact it sounds to me like the other girl should be the one in trouble here."

"The utterance of a racial slur directed toward that other girl on school grounds during school hours is certainly Sally's problem. However, it is not the only one."

She waited, but the bull, as she thought of him, had no more to say. "In an interview with the teacher whose classroom is nearest the site of the assault, the girl subjected to the racial slur leveled the charge of bullying at Sally. That is something we take very seriously in our school system. Unless some compelling evidence contradicts the witnesses the police have so far interviewed—"

"The police!"

"Yes, Mr. Vanderpool, the police are involved. I had the teacher who witnessed the original altercation fax a written statement to them." _Because I knew you would try to bribe me out of it otherwise, you pompous jerk._ "As I was saying, Sally is suspended until this investigation is over. She may not return to school property until she is cleared. If charges are pressed against her, her expulsion will be formalized."

Gina spoke for the first time. "How long will the investigation take?"

"No way to know. Weeks to months, I suspect."

"No! Oh, no! She's got a pageant in three weeks! She's worked so hard to be ready!"

"Perhaps," the principal said starchily, "she should have worked a little harder at being kind. I'll have you shown to the nurse's office."

"The nurse's office!"

"Yes, Mr. Vanderpool. She has a black eye."

"I'll sue the kid who gave her one! I'll sue this school!"

"Mr. Vanderpool, you may certainly initiate whatever legal actions you see fit." Principal Jones picked up the folder, walked to her door, and opened it. "A security officer will be here to escort you shortly."

"I'm not finished talking to you!"

"_I_ am finished talking to _you_, Mr. Vanderpool. Please wait for the security officer."

"I want to see that folder!"

"The folder contains confidential records concerning other children. You may not have access to it. In time, the police will contact you with the information you need. Please wait for the security officer."

The security officer showed up fortuitously; knocked and came in. "You needed me?"

_Indeed I did_. "Yes. Please escort Mr. and Mrs. Vanderpool to the nurse's office."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Gina Vanderpool said, once her family had neared her car, "Marcus, I want you to listen to me for a moment."

Her husband transferred a gaze like lava to her from her daughter. "What."

"On the way home, you will keep whatever imprecations you have in mind for Sally to yourself. I will not listen to you shout and my daughter cry and try to drive at the same time. If you persist in that, she and I will get out and call a cab for ourselves, _and only for ourselves_. Is that clear?"

He crossed his arms across his chest again. "Fine."

Gina got Sally into the back seat, where the girl sat huddled and lifeless, her backpack beside her and her purse in her lap. When Marcus snarled, "Seatbelt!" at her, she was very slow to respond.

Marcus half-turned to his daughter, but Gina put her hand just above his knee and squeezed, once, painfully hard. He gave her a startled glance and subsided.

The ride home was very silent.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Go and put your things away and come back down here," her father said, when Sally's family reached their home. "I'll be in my study."

Sally heard her mother murmuring something to Maria, who usually provided Sally with a snack when she came home from school. Maria simply nodded, and went back to the kitchen. Was no one in her house on her side? Sally wondered.

She went to her room and threw her things on the bed, dragging a Snickers out of her purse and consuming it in gulps. She didn't have much time.

When she arrived at her father's study, he said only, "Shut the door and sit down."

Sally's mother sat in another visitor's chair, this one nearer her father's than Sally's own chair. A frozen look on her face Sally had never seen before made her seem implacable, and she already knew that about her father.

Sally began to be frightened.

Sally sat, and folded her hands in her lap, back straight, like a proper little pageant contestant who does not show fright. "They're always watching you," her mother had said. "Always. They'll pick on every little thing. So don't give them anything to pick on."

She hadn't meant only the pageant judges, Sally knew.

Her father surveyed her with disgust. Sally kept her poise, and actually tilted her chin up: a good thing to do, her mother said.

Marcus Vanderpool scowled. "What did you do to land yourself this deep in the shit?" he said, his voice dripping with contempt.

"I didn't _do_ anything. I was just talking about my party when a gook chick in the high school hit me. When I called her that, she gave me a black eye." Sally turned to her mother. "It'll fade in time for the pageant, won't it?"

Before Gina could answer, Marcus snarled, "It won't goddamn _matter_. Calling her a gook's got your teachers and your principal all riled up. They called the police in, and they'll be investigating. What you did with that kid you dumped on the night of the party? The gook labeled it 'bullying' and they're believing that. They'll be investigating. Until that's over, you're suspended. You can't compete if you're suspended, your mother tells me."

"No!" Sally shouted. "That's not fair!"

Her father shrugged. "Fair or not, that's what happened. What I have to do, missy, is figure out how to keep this out of the papers, and how to keep _you_ out of juvie. Because if I can't, we'll never find a husband for you who can run the business when I'm gone. And everything we've ever spent on you will be wasted."

"No..." Sally said, the hot flush of shame surrounding her.

"Yes. You're such a disappointment, Sally. All that money and time, and now it's all gone. You're a disgrace. We'll probably have to send you to a boarding school to finish out high school, if we can keep you out of juvie. If we can't, well, you'll study there. Goodbye to getting into the best colleges if that happens."

Sally was faced with something she could not bear: it was, after all, her fault, and she had no worth because of that. She leapt from her chair, ignored her father's stentorian, "Get back here!" and ran to her room, locking the door behind her and flinging herself across her bed. To her own surprise, she was so angry that tears wouldn't come.

She could still hear Marcus shouting downstairs; Gina raised her voice in reply, and further exchanges were made.

Then they fell silent, and a few minutes later, the outside lock on her door snicked shut.

Sally snorted. Like that had ever kept her from going anywhere.

She turned her wrist, and the diamond-studded Longines which was a lot of money to be toting on one's wrist if one was thirteen told her it was only three o'clock. Her friends would be getting out of school and cheerleading practice starting without her.

All because of that little mini-geek.

In Sally's world, it was never Sally's fault. That it seemed to be Sally's fault was actually the fault of someone else. In this case, one Rafael Figueroa. She could not bear that the misapprehension continue. She would make sure that Raf knew it was his fault, and then it would be all right.

Sally ate her other Snickers, and an entire tube of Pringles. That was all she had, so that would have to do. Then she opened her laptop and checked her bank balance: $473.58. Fine, she could buy dinner with a debit card. She had a little cash too.

Sally, who would have had another gymnastics lesson today if things hadn't been wrecked by that mini-geek, climbed out her window onto the back porch roof, and from there jumped to the top of the garden wall, then made another jump down the back gate into the alley. She didn't intend to go to gymnastics.

The bus stop was three blocks away. The driver told her she'd have to make three transfers. She bought the ticket with the last of her cash, and sat down.

It was a quarter to seven when she got off the last bus, and seven by the clock in the Mission City Hospital when she walked into the entry.

She wasn't sure what she was going to do, but she was sure of one thing: the mess she was in should be laid at Raf Esquivel's feet, not her own, and she was going to make him see that.

A sign said that visiting hours ended at eight. She walked into the lobby, where a volunteer was busy with a crowd of visitors.

Putting on her sweetest smile, Sally said, "Excuse me, I know you're busy, but I'm trying to find my family. My half-brother, Raf Esquivel, is a patient here. Could you tell me what room they've moved him into?"

The volunteer hardly looked at her, just checked her computer screen. "He's in 319, surgical stepdown."

"Thank you." Sally went to the elevator and punched the button for the third floor.

Room 319 was near the elevator, right across from the nurses' station.

Sally had not decided what she was going to do, even after she slipped inside and shut the door behind her. Like all the stepdown rooms, there was a large window into the hallway, and Raf's curtains were open so that the nurses could keep an eye on him. Though there was really nothing to see; he was drowsy, not fully conscious, heavily bandaged arms on top of the sheet that covered him.

Sally stepped close and said, "Raf! Raf, wake up!"

Heavy-lidded brown eyes blinked open, shut, stayed that way, opened again, blinked several more times. Then they focused on her for the first time, and their owner said, in tones of amazed delight, "Sally?" Raf grappled for his cell phone, and one finger pressed "Record." If his angel had come to see him, he wanted to remember it.

"That's right. The girl whose life you ruined."

Raf laughed, and woke all the way up. Which was unfortunate. "You have to be kidding me, _chica_."

When the subject was Sally, Sally _never _kidded."That gook friend of yours attacked me today. My dad is going to see she gets deported."

"Why did she do that? That's not like Miko."

"She heard me talking about how funny it was when you got knocked into the pool."

Raf smiled. "I'll have to thank her when I get out of here."

"_Thank_ her? Thank _her_? You ought to be thanking me, for bringing one glorious moment of self-delusion into your life. You actually thought you were going to the dance with me! Me, Sally Vanderpool! I guess the truth was too much, wasn't it, Minigeek? Otherwise, why would you have attempted suicide?"

Raf remembered why, and sadness flooded him. "For something more important than you are, Sally."

Sally swelled up like a poisoned pig. "There is _nothing_ more important in your little life than me, Minigeek. Why are you living with your aunt and uncle? Don't your mother and father love you enough? Is that it? They gave you away because they didn't want you?" Sally spun on her heel and walked to the door. "They were right. You're worth nothing."

She knew a good exit line when she saw one, and closed the door gently behind herself. She went down to the hospital cafeteria, open 24 hours, and ate a good dinner there, with an untroubled conscience.

Raf watched her blond head float along the corridor until she was out of sight. Then he thought about what she had said for far too long.

Then he drew a wrong conclusion, turned on his cell phone, and after the nurse left him, climbed out of bed.

End Part Twenty-Three


	24. Chapter 24

Part Twenty-Four

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

It was after visiting hours when Stefania Figueroa arrived at the hospital. Fig had been called back to base earlier to take care of a minor emergency, and he came home to have dinner with the family. When he nearly drowsed off in his plate, Stefania told him to get some sleep; she would ask Diarwen for some childcare while she went to the hospital and sat with Raf. An unusually subdued Sideswipe had given her a lift, since she hadn't had much more rest than her husband. She didn't need to be involved in a car accident on top of everything else.

Instead of the pink lady who had been sitting at the reception desk, after hours it sported a security guard. She showed him her ID, and he let her go upstairs.

She stepped off the elevator into a scene of chaos. A twenty-ish man in khaki pants and a plaid shirt with a hospital ID badge clipped to its pocket was having a heated discussion with an older, balding man in a suit, who also had a picture ID clipped to his lapel. That badge said "Chief of Security."

The security chief demanded, in tones meant for no patient or relative thereof to hear, "How the fuck did that kid get this door opened with the charge nurse right there?"

The younger man kept himself from glancing at Stefania and said in very moderate tones, "Without the combination, I don't know how anyone could. The numbers either have to be entered manually, or sent from an authorized card's RFID chip. Unless a stolen key card was involved, it shouldn't have been possible."

"The security camera on the meds cabinet covers this whole area. He was the only one here, and it was only for a few seconds. He didn't have time to futz around with the door."

"Then he had to spoof the RFID receiver somehow. Until I download the data from the receiver and analyze it, all I can do is guess in the dark."

"All right. Download the data and find out yesterday. I need to know how this happened."

Their voices receded as she crossed the hall to Raf's room.

The room was empty.

A nurse saw her and hurried over.

"Where is my nephew?"

"Mrs. Figueroa, please come with me. The doctors would like to speak with you."

"What's happened? Where is Raf?"

"Please, Mrs. Figueroa. The doctors will answer all your questions."

Stefania allowed herself to be ushered through an unmarked door into a conference room. Raf's doctor was there, as was another doctor in a very expensive suit under a white coat. Hospital administrator, she thought. They both stood.

"Mrs. Figueroa, please sit down," said Suit, and gestured to a chair.

"No, thank you. I want to know where my nephew is, and I want to know this instant."

Suit sighed. "There's been an accident. Your nephew escaped from his room, broke into the stairwell leading to the roof, and went over the edge. He was very seriously injured, and he is in surgery right now. We called the base and your husband is on his way, but we couldn't reach you while you were en route."

Stefania kept to herself that Cybertronians found active cellphones in their passenger compartments to be very unpleasant; the signals the phones sent regularly to locate the nearest cell tower "itched." And it wasn't Sides' fault; how could he have known? "I turn off my cell phone in the car." Her brows came down and her voice hardened. "How did this happen? My husband was only gone for a couple of hours, and Raf was fine when Fig left him! He was right across the hall from the nurses' station, for the love of God! You knew he made one attempt at suicide already, you were supposed to have someone watching him when one of the family wasn't here!"

"The ward clerk _was_ watching him, but she had to turn her back briefly to get something from the files area. She was away from her desk two minutes and twelve seconds; we know that from the length of time her computer was locked.

"The door your nephew exited through has an extremely secure lock which opens only to the appropriate combination, an RFID signal, or a key only five people, all of them administrators, have access to. We still haven't figured out how it was bypassed, especially in that length of time."

"Never mind that right now," Stefania said, brushing it aside. "How badly is Raf injured?"

Suit frowned. "He was still in triage when we were notified. He's in surgery right now. When your husband gets here, we'll take you to a private waiting area, and you'll be updated as soon as we know anything."

Jorge Figueroa barged in, wide awake, and he had brought his transport with him. Dewayne Sturman's size instantly dominated any room he entered, and this one was no exception.

The administrator repeated his explanation.

Fig snarled, "What kind of an outfit are you running here anyway? You can't even watch a suicidal middle-schooler for two fuckin' hours? I want a straight answer this time—what happened?"

Sturman said, "Fig, if you'll tell 'em it's okay to talk to me about it, you can let me worry about that. You go wait for Raf's doctors to come out, OK? I'll find out what happened up here. It's OK. I got this."

Stefania said, "Fig, please. I need you with me."

"OK. OK."

They had to sign a paper, of course, and then the same nurse showed the Figueroas out. Sturman turned to the administrator. "Now, I take it you don't have to be anywhere right away? Why don't you walk me through this? Show me Raf's room and we'll start there."

"Mister...?" the man peered at Dewayne's less-than-legible signature.

"Sturman."

"Right this way, Mr. Sturman," the man said, gesturing with an open palm. "Believe me, I want these answers as badly as you do."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Fig and Stefania waited alone in a small, luxuriously appointed room. The ever-present hospital noise was muted, and soft music from hidden speakers filled the room. A small screen listed the status of each patient currently in surgery. "Figueroa, R" had been in Surgery Suite 1 for the entire time they had been waiting: three and a half hours, the clock said, but surely it had to be longer than that?

A young woman in a business suit had brought them coffee and showed them a button which would alert her if they wanted anything else. They hadn't used it. They wanted Raf to be all right, and that she couldn't provide.

The door opened, admitting a doctor in green scrubs, and Fig and Stefania both stood. Stefania took in the doctor's serious expression, and grabbed Fig's arm hard enough to leave bruises. Fig didn't even notice.

"Doctor, Raf—is—"

"Your nephew is alive."

"What happened?"

"He jumped off the roof and landed in a rock garden outside the main entrance. Mr. and Mrs. Figueroa, he was very badly injured, and the most serious of those extensive injuries is a cervical fracture. Raf's spinal cord was severed at the C-5 level. He is on a ventilator now. If he survives, it is possible that he will regain the ability to breathe on his own, but he will be a complete quadriplegic."

"What do you mean, if he survives?"

"His other injuries were extensive," the surgeon repeated patiently. "We've done everything we can, and he is in the Surgical Intensive Care Unit receiving the best possible care. But it's up to him now. With injuries this severe, the patient's will to live is ninety-five per cent of the battle."

The Figueroas exchanged a glance. With a second attempt, Raf's "will to live" could not be counted on. "Can we see him?" Fig said, feeling the hope squeeze out of his heart.

"Yes, briefly, but I want you to be prepared for what you're going to see."

"Prepared," Fig said flatly. This was a nightmare he couldn't wake from.

The doctor described the forest of support and monitoring equipment that surrounded Raf's bed: heart rate, blood pressure, and neurological data were continuously monitored. "All that's necessary," the doctor said, "because Raf had a seizure on the operating table. He is in a medically-induced coma to prevent it from happening again, and to help reduce swelling of his brain."

"Is he brain-damaged?" Fig asked.

"His EEG is what we would expect right now for someone who recently suffered physical trauma to the brain. Until he wakes up, _if_ he wakes up, we won't know if there is permanent cognitive impairment beyond the damage to his spinal cord, or to what extent."

_"Ay dios mio," _Stefania said. She wanted to cry and couldn't. She would never stop if she started.

"What do we do now?" Fig said.

"Rest. Take care of your other children," the doctor said, his words as blunt as his eyes were compassionate. "The Raf you knew is gone. If he lives, he has lost all mobility and sensation from the tops of his shoulders down. He will require assistance twenty-four/seven. He may or may not be on a respirator. There are methods for paralytics to control powered wheelchairs and other devices, but he will be months reaching that point, if he can be persuaded to participate in his own rehabilitation. He's going to spend a lot of time in the hospital getting there.

"The SICU has very strictly enforced visitation periods of fifteen minutes every four hours. I would advise you to create a schedule so that only one person comes in during the visitation period. If your other children are under the age of eighteen, they won't be allowed to visit."

Fig set his shoulders and said, "I'm not going anywhere. If I'd been with him this never would have happened."

Stefania said, "Then I'll stay too, so that you can try to sleep a little while. We'll take turns. May we see Raf now, please?"

"Of course. Come with me, please."

A few moments later, they stood by Raf's bed, squeezed into the only bit of floor that didn't have a machine sitting on it. Each of these machines added its own note to the general cacophony in the room, wheezing, beeping, chugging, whining electronic trills. Each had a small monitor of some sort, and all of them seemed to feed into a large monitor over the head of Raf's bed, displaying jungles of colored lines.

The bed was far too large for Raf; he lay in the middle of an island of white, his head swathed in bandages, a halo frame screwed into his skull to completely immobilize his neck.

He had broken other bones in the three-story fall. One arm was cast and supported in the usual angle for immobilizing a fractured collarbone, and one of his legs was cast, elevated, and in traction. The other lay encased in another halo, this one consisting of three rings connected by rods, and sporting wires that pierced his skin to hold shattered bones in place.

Stefania cried softly. "Raf, oh, Raf."

Fig asked, "Is he in pain?"

The doctor shook his head. "He's too deeply unconscious."

The Figueroas stayed at Raf's side until a nurse gently told them that they would have to leave. Unable to find a waiting room close by, they simply sat on the floor outside the SICU—Surgical Intensive Care Unit—entrance.

When they came back out after their next fifteen minutes, a sofa had been placed against that wall. Sturman, who had kidnapped it from another area, was dusting his hands with a satisfied expression on his face. Will Lennox stood behind him.

"Colonel. DeWayne."

"At ease, Fig. Consider yourself on leave. Forty-eight hour pass, and we'll see where it goes after that. What did the doctors say?"

Fig shook his head. "He broke his neck. If he lives, he'll be completely paralyzed."

Dewayne said, "Fig, the IS guy and I figured out how he got that door open. He had one of our cell phones, the ones we can use to talk to...uh, Jazz or Sides, for instance? Well, it can talk to RFID equipment too. He wrote a program on it to send and receive RFID signals. When the nurse came in to check on him, he had it download the information off her card, then all he had to do was wait for the nurse at the desk to turn her back, and he walked through the door like it wasn't there."

_"La puta madre!" _Fig swore in a tone half appalled, half impressed.

"More brains than sense," Stefania mourned.

"Anything we can do?" Lennox asked.

Fig shook his head; this whole day felt to him like climbing a mountain that got steeper and steeper as the day went on. "I don't know, sir. I don't know what anyone can do. I left him, and this happened. Nobody can do anything now."

Lennox said, "I don't know either, Fig, but I gotta say this. As hard as he tried to leave, if Raf's still here, there's gotta be a reason." Lennox held eye contact, adding, "And that he waited until you were gone? He knows how hard you fight for him, Fig."

"I wish I knew why he's still here. If I knew why, maybe I could use it to give him hope." Fig covered his eyes with his hands, and Stefania gathered him close and glared at them. They failed to take offense, and stayed a while longer.

But Fig was right: nobody could do anything now but Raf himself. And he had already chosen not to, twice.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The next two days passed in a fog of shock. Will Lennox and Optimus Prime were very grateful that Soundwave's gang had been dealt with, because morale was at low not seen since Megatron temporarily offlined Optimus almost three years ago.

The whole story began to circulate at typhoon speed when police became involved at the school; once charges were leveled at Sally Vanderpool, everyone at the base, everyone who had a child in school, knew the details. Those who didn't fall into either camp were simply tantalized by an expunged police report.

Both commanders spent as much time as they could among their troops, being wise and strong at great cost to themselves: both wanted only to pound something into splinters and then get completely wasted. Everyone knew Raf, and liked him. He'd torn the heart out of the base.

The Lennoxes held one another and cried. The Figueroas did a lot of that too. Optimus had not been able to cry in vorn, and Diarwen could do very little to ease the anguish in his spark, other than lie with him in the silence of their darkened quarters, resting her head over his spark and sharing the burden.

The kids who went to middle school reported a day later that Sally Vanderpool had been expelled and no one knew where she was. The wild rumor now was that she was dead too, and the suspects were either her father, or Miko. But no one could really work up the energy to care about the tween rumor mill any more, even Miko.

Tuesday, an exceptionally brave—or stupid—tuba player whose locker was next to hers asked, "Did you—did you kill Sally Vanderpool?"

Miko barely glanced at him, and continued to shuffle books in and out of her locker. "No. If I wanted her dead, she'd have died in the hallway. I want her alive." She turned to him, black eyes smoldering, two flags of red flying in her cheeks. "I want her alive. I want her alive, to watch her suffer."

The tuba player backed away slowly. Miko slammed her locker shut, and walked down the hall without looking back, her reputation as the chief, lead, primary, _baddest_, of all badasses in the Mission City School System set in cement.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Fig went into the SICU to visit with Raf, but found the nurses working on him. The ward nurse said, "If you'll wait in the hall, Sergeant Figueroa, I'll come and get you when we're finished."

"What's the matter with him?"

"You'd do better to talk to Raf's nurse about that. I'll tell her that you have questions for her."

_"Gracias."_

When they were finished, the nurse explained, "Raf has a slight infection in one of the pin sites in his leg. We've cleaned it, and the doctor ordered an antibiotic. Other than that, there's no change. Don't go anywhere, the doctor wants to discuss Raf's last EEG with you."

"All right. I'll either be here or right outside the door."

"Thanks," said the angel of mercy, and went on her way.

Fig sat down in the room's single small, hard plastic chair. _"Hijo,_ you need to come out of this and start getting better. You've got the whole base in an uproar. Everyone misses you. I wish you could have realized before this all happened how many people love you and care about you. Evanon told Ironhide that Diarwen was crying at circle this morning. We need you back. Any way we can get you, we need you back.

"I talked to your _papa_ this morning. He's flying out Thursday or Friday, as soon as your stepmom's sister can come stay with her. Guess she's having the morning sickness from hell and she needs someone with her to make sure she don't puke up her toenails or somethin' like that. He's been calling me after every visiting hour to see how you're doing. Santiago is still your _papa_, Raf. I know he's an ass, but he's still your _papa_, and he does love you. He just doesn't know how to show it.

"If I could trade places with you, I would. But this is your fight. You gotta reach deep and find the heart to win it. Doc says, you have to want to live. I'm begging you, _hijo,_ want that. Whatever the doctors tell you, it don't matter, they're not taking our own personal skunkworks into account. All that work that Chase is doing? He'll make it work for you too. You have to live, Raf."

Silence as answer. Fig put his hand down on the cool one on the sheet. "I'm gonna talk to your _papa _about lettin' me and Stefania adopt you, Raf. You're ours now, _hijo_, our _hijo_ of the heart. We need you. Please come back to us."

There was a bustle in the hall, and Raf's doctor came in. "Sgt. Figueroa, I was hoping to find you here."

Fig patted Raf's hand and stood. _"_I will talk to you later, _mi hijo_._ Si,_ the nurse said something about Raf's EEG?"

"Yes, we performed another one a little while ago. I wanted to let you know we've been gradually lightening the meds that keep Raf unconscious, and his brain activity is much better. That's not to say it's normal, yet; it isn't. In fact, there's some anomalous activity in certain areas of his brain that none of us understands. Very curious. But over all, this is a very, very good sign. We're going to continue to wean him off the meds and we'll repeat the EEG in a couple of days."

"What about the infection that they were treating when I came in a little while ago?"

"The orthopedist who was working on his legs flushed out all kinds of crud from his wounds that came from the site he landed in. I ordered a culture from the lab so we know what we're dealing with, and I've started him on a course of stronger antibiotics than the usual just to be sure." The man paused. "I don't want to give you false hope, Sergeant. But I don't want you to give up hope either. It's still one minute at a time for Raf, and it will be for some while."

Fig bowed his head. Bad news with the good, always. "Thank you, Doctor."

The doctor cocked his head at his patient's support system. "When's the last time you had some sleep? Get somebody else to come stay with him the next visit, then come back for the one after. Go home, see your family, get some sleep in your own bed and a good meal. You won't help Raf if you collapse."

"Yeah, I know that. You'll call me, no matter what, if there's the slightest change?"

"Of course I will. Immediately. Just make sure they have all your phone numbers out at the desk."

Fig nodded. Hard as it was to take that advice, he knew the doctor was making sense. But he'd made a career out of hard choices; he could do this.

He went to the desk.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"I'm sorry," the doctor said, "but the infection we found in Raf's leg wounds is MRSA." He pronounced it "Mer-sah."

The next day, Fig and Stefania were in his office, where the bad news always seemed to be dealt out.

"What's MRSA?" Stefania said. Her husband was in no shape to process any more bad news about his nephew; Fig's eyes had sunk into his head at the doctor's words.

"It's methicillin-resistant staphylococcus aureus. Staph. One person in three carries it on their skin in a less...troubling...form. MRSA doesn't respond well to most of the antibiotics we have to fight it."

"How did he get it?"

The doctor said, "Right now we don't know. I had everyone who touched him after he jumped interviewed. Everyone. The man who found him, a gardener, didn't touch him, as he had no sterile gloves with him. Everyone else has worn them to work with Raf. We're doing tests on our air and water, and even our cleaning personnel. We also did a nasal scrape on Raf, to see if he had it coming in. The results for these tests take about 48 hours."

"To see if he had it coming in?"said Stefania, her brows drawing down.

"Yes. One or two people in every hundred have MRSA on their skin or in their nasal passages. Has Raf been swimming in the Atlantic or Pacific oceans? Those waters carry MRSA."

Fig said slowly. "When he vacationed at my mother's house in St. Augustine a few years ago, he might have gone swimming in the Atlantic. My mother has since become very vague and forgetful, and I've forgotten who else was there, so I don't know who I could ask."

"You haven't taken him to swim in the Pacific?"

"No, just Lake Mead."

The doctor made notes. "All right. Until we have this licked, you will need to wear a hospital gown, shoe covers, and gloves when you see Raf. His immune system is too stressed right now to deal with skin-to-skin contact, so no kissing. When you get home put your clothes through a hot wash immediately, and take a shower before you touch your other kids, okay?"

Stefania felt herself pale. "Yes, of course. Is that all we need to know?"

"I think so. The nurses on-station will get you kitted out to see Raf, and give you a handout. Just follow their instructions and what the handout says, okay? We want everyone to be safe, you, Raf, your family, all of us who work with him. You'll be in good hands."

Raf looked smaller and more defenseless than ever, and the leg in the cradle was now swathed in gauze, spots of golden exudate showing here and there. Stefania thought that between her husband and her nephew, her heart would break.

Fig's features had drawn in and tightened to the bone. He couldn't take much more of this unending torture, Stefania knew. But she knew also that he would fight to the end of the battle for Raf, never giving up, not for an instant, no matter the cost to himself.

She took Raf's hand into her gloved one, and stroked his forehead with her other glove. "Raf, _hijo de mi corazon_," she whispered, "we're here, _Tia_ Stefania and _Tio_ Jorge. We love you, Raf."

That was the truth. It seemed to Stefania it was the only truth she had left.

End Part Twenty-Four


	25. Chapter 25

Part Twenty-Five

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

It had been Fig's experience that when things went straight to hell, they didn't wave a fond farewell to normalcy, they didn't send any kind of notice to those affected, they just went.

He and Stefania, Stefania on the phone with Monique Epps to check in on the kids, were sitting together on Dewayne's stolen sofa when they heard a ruckus within the SICU unit. Both of them jumped to their feet and looked through the windows in the double doors to see what was happening. A mobile piece of technology and several doctors and nurses barreled into Raf's room.

"What do we do? We can't get in their way!" Stefania said.

Fig had learned to trust his gut. The sensible thing to do would be to wait here for someone to come out and tell them what was happening, but sometimes the sensible thing to do was absolutely the wrong one. Some soldiers had a sense for when that was, and the ones who survived paid attention.

Fig had so far survived. "You stay here," he said to Stefania. "If I get kicked out you might have to take over." He barged through the doors, went to Raf's room, and knocked.

When the doctor poked his head out, Fig spoke in a quiet commanding tone that was as far removed from "hysterical relative" as humanly possible. "What's the situation?"

As he had hoped, the doctor didn't even think to pull rank or demand that he obey visiting hours. Instead, he came out of the room, shutting its door behind him.

"I'm afraid that we have some bad news. You see, the MRSA infection has moved to Raf's lungs, and it is not responding to any of the antibiotics we've tried. Given his condition, Raf is simply too weak to fight it off. He has developed an extremely severe case of pneumonia very quickly, and his condition is deteriorating by the minute. We are doing everything possible for him, but right now, I'm afraid that it's time for you and Mrs. Figueroa to make a decision. What we're doing is prolonging Raf's death, not saving his life. Even if you decide to continue doing everything possible, he is unlikely to survive the night."

Fig thought fast. One Hail Mary play remained, but Raf needed to survive until Fig could pull it off. If he simply refused permission to take Raf off life support, the hospital might well get a court order to have it removed.

"I understand, Doctor. Raf's father, Santiago, is trying to get out here from North Carolina, but there is a medical situation with Raf's stepmother as well. His plan was to come tomorrow or the next day, when we didn't realize the situation was this desperate, but I'll call right now and get him on the next plane. Their family situation is...not ideal. If Santiago doesn't get to say goodbye to his son, after everything that's happened—you understand..."

"Yes, I understand. But he needs to be on the _next plane. _I can't stress that enough."

Internally, Fig crumpled. Externally, he showed no sign of that at all. "Do your best, Doctor."

"We will."

"Can Stefania stay with Raf? If something goes wrong..." Fig felt tears begin in his eyes, and ruthlessly shut them off. "No child should die alone."

"The disease has become airborne, which means that anyone breathing the same air as Raf can get it. That means gowns, shoe covers, independent air supply, face mask, and gloves. But," the doctor said, "that being known, as long as Mrs. Figueroa is willing to follow those protocols, I'll allow it."

"Thank you, Doctor. We're truly grateful."

The doctor nodded once, briefly, and reentered Raf's room.

Fig returned to Stefania, and quickly outlined the situation for her.

"Of course I'll stay with him, but what are you going to do?"

"You call Monique, let her know that we'll be late; then call Santiago. After that, I need to cover my tracks, even from you. If I have to send somebody, they'll talk about _abuelita's _palm trees, okay?"

"Abuelita's palm trees. Okay."

Fig squeezed her hand. "Don't give up hope, no matter what they tell you. At all costs, Raf is to be kept alive. Failure is not an option."

Stefania nodded sharply. _"Vaya con dios."_

While Stefania was outfitted with enough protective gear to look like an astronaut, Fig made his way swiftly out of the hospital. Those who passed him, hospital personnel or not, even one cop there to keep tabs on an OD case, took one look at his face and got out of his way.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Unable to recharge, Optimus found himself too restless to continue to simply lie on his berth and think.

Diarwen had more passed out from exhaustion than fallen into recharge. Like everyone else, she blamed herself for Raf's present situation; but being Raf's teacher, she assigned herself more blame than others would. It was her duty to be aware of the state of her students, and she felt that she had failed in that duty.

Optimus did not want to wake her. Very gently, he wrapped her in his fields and sent a wave of calming energy, just as one would to put a sleepy sparkling down for the night, and moved his consort and her futon to the berth. Then he crept out of the room, leaving a note on her datapad.

Flareup was on monitor duty when he got to admin. Two NEST soldiers were at their stations up on the catwalk as well. One of them snapped, "Prime on deck!" and they both saluted, but when he acknowledged them, they returned to their duties without further ado.

He told Flareup, "I find that recharge eludes me this joor. I had as well take the watch. You are relieved."

"Yes, Prime." She looked concerned, but did not argue. She rose and went to a human filing station, and began to sort papers.

He realized that it would be Made Known to Chromia that he was not recharging well. If the situation continued, he would be due a Talk with both his Consort and his foster mother. If he continued in this disapproved-of behavior, Ironhide would also consult, most likely at the top of his vocalizer.

And all of that affection was both exasperating, and comforting. He saw no point to admitting the latter, even to himself, and turned to the monitor.

On the surface, everything seemed normal. Base patrols made their rounds, and those few with duties at night went about their business. Off-duty personnel were nearly all asleep or in recharge.

Optimus had the sense, however, that something momentous was about to happen, and it made his plating itch. Gaia was restless in her recharge as well; he wondered if she, as the Matrix, sensed it too, or if she was merely responding to his unease.

When Sergeant Figueroa burst through the door of the Admin building, Gaia swung to him like a compass needle to north: he was the source of her restlessness, and his fields were certainly roiled enough to account for her interest. The sergeant saw Optimus, and began climbing the stairs to the monitoring station, pulling out his cell phone.

Optimus summoned Roller from his trailer and held a servo up to Figueroa, then inclined his head in the direction of Building A, where his office was located. The sergeant inclined his own head, nothing so observable as a nod, and continued past Optimus to the human stations at the other end of the catwalk, checked a few miscellaneous things, then reversed course and followed the Prime.

Optimus was standing when Fig arrived in his office. "Sergeant Figueroa, what has happened?"

Fig gulped, and steadied himself, or tried to; his fields did not change by much. "Raf has pneumonia. His condition is extremely critical, and deteriorating by the minute. He won't survive the night. Prime, I beg you, transition him into one of your Pretender frames. It's the only chance he has now."

Optimus paused, and then said, "I need time to think. Not much, Sergeant, as your people count it; but still, some time." He gestured Fig to a human-sized chair in his office, sat himself, steepled his servos in front of him, and considered.

First, if the transition were successful but was found out, there might be murder charges. Optimus himself, Jolt, Ratchet, Pierpoint, and Fig, possibly even Stefania, might all face them.

If that went badly it could cost the Cybertronians their refuge here. That in turn had the potential to take lives, if he, or Prowl as his successor if the humans chose to imprison him, had to pull his people off Earth and start a new colony from nothing on the moon, or on Mars.

If he turned his back on an innocent child, whether that became known or not, it would cost Optimus, personally, far more than those lives. But that was a price he could pay only if others never knew...and Sergeant Figueroa, thus all of NEST, everyone on the base, would know.

Thank Primus, he'd found a reason to let him save the boy.

"Sergeant, we will do it. Go back to the hospital. When transport is offered to Raf, sign off on it."

"We can't wait for me to get back," Fig said, his heart weighing about forty pounds less than it had five seconds before. "Stefania's there right now. I'll call her."

"I see. Let me explain things to her, Sergeant. I can mask the call."

"Yes, sir," Fig said, and at that point, he almost stopped worrying. Unless Raf was required in the afterlife more than he and Stefania needed him, their nephew was safe.

Optimus summoned Ratchet and Jazz, and sent a quick transmission to Dr. Pierpoint, explaining the situation and requesting the Pretender's assistance.

All these co-conspirators arrived in a rush. Pierpoint brought Emery McKuen with him; Optimus cocked a brow plate at the interloper.

Pierpoint rushed into speech. "Optimus Prime, sir, I know how we can do this. Raf would have a marginally better chance at University Medical Center, in Las Vegas. I have a transscan of a hazmat suit. Emery and I can pose as paramedics and Ratchet can be our ambulance. All we need is the proper paperwork: the right computer documents authorizing the transfer, and their backup at the hospitals involved. Once we're out of the hospital, we'll have someone meet us with the protoform and transition him."

Fig asked, his desperation clearly audible, "Will it work with him so far out of it?"

Pierpoint said very positively, leaving no room for doubt, "One of our guys coded on the table and was down about ninety seconds before we could get him hooked up. He came through with flying colors. If Raf has a pulse and an EEG, he's in better condition than that."

Optimus said only, "Make it happen."

Gaia hummed with contentment and settled back into recharge; Optimus relaxed. He'd been right to do this. Whatever else happened, he could cope with it, with Primus behind him.

Ratchet roused Jolt, and told him and Fig, "You two, follow us with the protoform. Find the nearest place you can to the hospital where we won't be seen or interrupted. We'll meet you there." He busied himself with the selection of the protoform, going to storage to do so.

Jazz forged the transport papers, for a given value of "forged"—a perfect and perfectly signed copy existed in the electronic files of both hospitals when he was done. He printed out a copy in triplicate, and handed it to Emery McKuen.

Fig told Pierpoint, "Tell Stefania that I said to tell her we'll be chasing Raf out of his _abuelita's _palm trees again before she knows it. She'll know I sent you."

"Out of his _abuelita's_ palm trees. Got it."

Ratchet transformed and opened his rear bay for McKuen and Pierpoint, who were putting the finishing touches on their disguises as they climbed aboard. Fig, with a little grunting, got the cased protoform into Jolt's hatchback. It fit so tightly that he judged further tiedowns to be unnecessary.

Ratchet ran his lightbar all the way in, extending his senses so that he had to sound the siren only when utterly needful. Jolt kept up with him; at ten on a weeknight, there wasn't much traffic, so that was safer than it might have been.

Eight minutes out from the hospital, Jolt spotted a possible transition point; six minutes out, another; three, another. He informed Sergeant Figueroa of each. They decided the last one actually looked best, and he transmitted its coordinates to Ratchet.

But Ratchet declined it. ::It's in the wrong direction if we're pretending to transport to University. Go north and east. Try to keep the transfer point out of sight of the hospital itself.:: He transmitted a map, and fell silent as he sped into the "Ambulance Only" parking.

Seven minutes later, Jolt found another place just beyond the sightline of the hospital: a dead-end street off a park, surrounded by single-leaf pinyon thirty feet tall. If they parked under the trees nearest the hospital, no one at the hospital could see the protoform transfer they would have to make. He sent a video file and the coordinates to Ratchet, who sent back, ::Perfect.::

Jolt and Fig settled down to wait. There should not be much traffic on this street at night, but all the same, Fig slouched low in Jolt's driver's seat, and prepared himself to lie flat if they saw headlights.

If a cop investigated, they were going to have one hell of a time explaining the gray, featureless protoform in its "coffin" behind him. Jolt had absorbed the back seat to make more room under his hatchback so that the pod would fit, but other than tinting his windows there was no way to hide it from anyone walking right up behind him. Better that they give a patrol car no reason to stop in the first place.

Meanwhile, Pierpoint and McKuen entered the Mission City hospital pushing a gurney upon which rested a biobag, an international orange mobile isolation pod used to transport highly infectious patients. People got out of the way when they saw one of those coming.

McKuen presented the transfer orders, which were processed with alacrity, then Pierpoint nodded to Stefania and relayed Fig's pass phrase.

Her face lit up, but she smothered her joy and said only, "Where are you taking him?"

"To University Medical Center, ma'am," he answered. "They have the best infectious disease center in the area."

The first part of that sentence was only partially true. Raf's body would be going there to be pronounced dead. They all prayed that Raf, on the other hand, would be going home with Fig and Jolt.

As soon as the gurney was loaded inside his bay and he was off hospital grounds, Ratchet kicked on the lights and sirens and hit cruising speed.

Three minutes later Ratchet killed both lights and sirens, and ninety seconds after that he backed into position behind Jolt and opened his bay. Jolt popped his hatchback; the two Pretenders grabbed the pod containing the protoform and lifted it inside, and Ratchet slammed his bay shut. Pierpoint sent the command to open the pod, and its cover rolled into the base, revealing the gray, undifferentiated protoform.

McKuen unzipped the isolation bag and fitted the DNI—direct neural interface—headset over Raf's forehead, making sure the contacts were firmly pressed to his skin. "OK, go!"

Pierpoint plugged the other end of the cable into the protoform's cervical port. "Clear!"

McKuen made sure he was not touching Raf or the gurney that he lay upon. "Clear!"

"Initiating handshake."

Raf's body convulsed, then fell still. A moment later, the protoform's optics flickered, then burned steadily amber, but the frame remained gray and featureless.

McKuen said, "He should be differentiating."

Pierpoint said, "Give him a little bit. It took Sunderland a while, remember."

Ratchet's sensors were better than theirs. "He's still writing data."

Fig pounded on the windows, shouting, "Let me in there!"

"Can't! Contaminated!" Pierpoint yelled; once they opened the biobag, Ratchet's interior had become potentially lethal to any human being.

The NEST sergeant cursed, and it was a very high-quality curse indeed. He stayed where he was, plastered to the window.

After a nerve-wracking few moments, the protoform began to come to life, shrinking in on itself until it was a twin to the body lying on the gurney beside it.

The moment that Raf's spark kindled, all signs of life disappeared from his former body. The portable respirator continued its illusion of life, but Ratchet's scans showed no sign of neurological activity. Raf had taken up residence in the protoform.

McKuen would make sure that Raf's body bore the marks of repeated defibrillation, or attempt at same, before they got to the hospital.

Later, the Autobot CMO would go over his scans of the process with a clinical mindset. But for now, Ratchet was overwhelmed by the miracle. He'd experienced it before, seeing a Pretender transition, watching a newspark first come online at the temple, watching a human baby take its first breath. But it never got old, and each time he was freshly awed into reverence.

Raf, however, onlined his optical processor for the first time to see his former body lying dead not two feet away from him. Just as Pierpoint had, he screamed with a spark-deep fright.

Pierpoint cursed himself and zipped the biobag, concealing the corpse from view. McKuen both transmitted and said aloud, "Raf. Listen to me. Focus on me, OK? I'm Emery McKuen, remember? And that's Dr. Pierpoint. We're in Ratchet's bay. Fig is right outside. You're OK, you're safe. We got you, you're safe now."

"_Tio_ Jorge?"

"Ratchet, he wants his uncle. Sterilize the bay so you can open up?"

"Got a positive seal on that biobag?"

Pierpoint double-checked it. "Affirmative."

"Stand away from everything as far as you can and hold out your arms and legs."

For a moment, all Ratchet's transparent surfaces turned opaque, and his entire bay was filled with a network of powerful ultraviolet lasers that played over every square millimeter of every surface in the bay and traversed all the open space to catch any organisms floating in the air. When his scans showed that his bay contained none except those trapped inside the biobag, he opened his door.

By that time the two Pretenders were their usual selves again, the hazmat suits gone until next needed. Raf had rebooted, which was only to be expected.

With the DNI cables out of the way, Ratchet was able to link up with Raf and bring him back online gradually, this time with Fig at his side, holding his servo.

McKuen, his servo gentle on Raf's arm, said, "I don't want to break up the party, but we need to rock and roll. For one thing, I want to get to the hospital ahead of Stefania so we can intercept her and let her know what's happening, before someone else gives her bad news."

Ratchet said, "I'll comm Optimus; he'll mask a call to her." Then he asked, "Raf, do you think you can sit up?"

The boy nodded, still looking pretty out of it, and awkwardly pushed himself to a sitting position. He didn't seem to realize he was naked.

Fig stood up, joy in his heart. "Scan my clothes, _hijo, _can't have you streaking all over Mission City!"

Raf did, and couldn't figure out why it wasn't working for a long moment. Then it dawned on him: "Turn around and let me see the back, _Tio_."

Later, Raf would learn how to use all his senses to create a 360 degree transscan. But one minute and fifty-eight seconds into being a Pretender, he was able to parse only the data analogous to his human senses.

Pierpoint sent a helpful file explaining how to map the transscan's mesh to his surface plates so the clothes would come out the right size, and Raf got it right the first time. Well, close enough, anyway; he hadn't actually mimicked cloth, just contoured his armor to the shape of clothing and sent color codes to his color nanites. At night, in the dark, he could pass for a clothed human being, though his appearance wouldn't stand the test of daylight, nor that of human touch. That would come with practice.

Jolt opened his doors for Fig and Raf, but Fig gently shut his driver's side door and climbed into the back with his nephew.

More frightened than he could ever remember being, Raf huddled in Jolt's back seat, fields drawn in tight. Jolt remembered sheltering an equally devastated Shad White, and sent a comforting field pulse. "Let's get you back home, OK?" he said aloud. "Everything's going to be all right now, Raf, you'll see."

All Raf remembered was that for a moment, he had been in his mother's arms, and she kissed him, then gave him a push down a long white tunnel which led to waking up staring at his body. He crowded himself as far as he could into the corner formed by Jolt's seat and door, and started to cry quietly.

Fig gathered Raf into his arms, and Jolt wrapped him in his fields, both of them sending in their various ways glyphs of comfort and safety.

Jolt widened his sensor net and accelerated, casually breaking the human speed limit, slowing only to pass other vehicles. Once beyond city limits, he turned the usual ten minutes between Mission City and the base into five.

Raf wept throughout the journey, but at its end found himself cried out.

The bot side of medbay was configured with two human-sized spaces for the Pretenders. These were placed on top of a bot-sized berth, so that Ratchet and Jolt could work on them without having to kneel on the floor.

Jolt got a set of minibot leads and attached them to various dataports, then had Raf open a wrist panel so that he could attach energon and coolant lines. Fig, meanwhile, climbed up to be with his nephew.

Monitors came to life, and Fig winced—the horrors of that SICU room came back, an experience he would never forget if he lived to be a thousand years old. But then he looked at Ratchet's apprentice, and suddenly felt much better: Jolt was smiling.

Noting Fig's attention, the young medic said, "Ratchet has some more advanced tests that he wants to run when he gets back, but so far it's a textbook onlining. Raf, how are you feeling?"

The boy—mechling—looked puzzled as he said, "I don't know. Everything's...different. The air smells funny, and there's so much noise. I keep getting all these signals on my HUD, but I don't know what they are or if I can ignore them."

"Here," Jolt said, proffering a data chip, "this is the file of Cybertronian, the language they're written in. It's a big file and will take you a bit to download. For now, are any of the displays red?"

"No."

"Do you see your status indicators? Fuel, charge, and fluids level bars, and a line of readouts underneath that?"

"Yes."

"Are all of those green?"

"Everything except charge, and it's orange. It's a little less than a third."

Jolt smiled to reassure him. "Yes, we were expecting that. We had to leave in quite a hurry. There wasn't time to get much charge into the frame we gave you. But as long as you're resting, that's enough to last quite a while. We'll let you recharge as soon as Ratchet gets done with you."

Raf's optics dilated fully and burned at maximum brightness. _"Ay, dios mio!"_

Fig squeezed his shoulder. "Don't you worry about Ratchet. If anyone tans your hide, it'll be me."

"_Si_, so it should be. I'm sorry, _Tio_ Jorge."

Figueroa grasped Raf's hand in both of his, and drew on all the training he had been given to help someone in his unit who might find himself in this situation. "Rafael, _mi hijo_, I won't pretend to understand why you did it, but not knowing what hurt you so badly, I can't judge. It's in the past and we're starting all over again. I will get you whatever help you need to make sure it's a good, clean start this time. Whatever it takes for you to get better, that's what we'll do. Consider me your battle buddy, _hijo, _I'm here for you 24/7. If you ever feel like you're out of options again, you call on me and I'll _make_ you an option. If I can't, I'll find you someone who can."

Raf didn't try to answer aloud with cleaning fluid pooling in his optics, just nodded vigorously and held to his uncle's hand, very carefully, lest his suddenly greater strength cause an injury. When he had mastered himself, he asked, "Jolt, am...am I OK now? None of the...damage...carried over?"

Jolt said, "I haven't found any so far. A new frame is a clean slate, Raf. But we'll make absolutely sure nothing needs to be tuned up before we let you out of here, OK?"

"OK, Jolt."

"What will that entail?" Fig asked. "When can I take my boy home?"

"We'll want Jazz to analyze his programming. If brain damage occurred it might have corrupted some programs on transfer."

"Brain damage!" Raf said.

Fig squeezed his servo. "_Si_,_ hijo_. You jumped from the third floor of that hospital, and really messed yourself up."

Jolt asked carefully, "Do you remember that?"

"I—no. The last thing I remember, though, was reprogramming my phone to open a lock in the hospital, so...it must be true."

Jolt said, "It's common for humans to forget the time immediately prior to a head injury. It doesn't seem to write to your short-term memory in the first place. So that is not a sign of anything wrong."

Raf frowned, and Jolt realized that whatever the mechling was worried about, it wasn't that. The youngling said, "When will Jazz see me?"

"How about if I ask him now?"

_"Por favor."_

Jolt's optics unfocused as he commed their unofficial processor specialist. ::Jazz, Ratchet's cut orders for you to analyze Raf's coding, in case his condition before transition resulted in programming issues. Raf's a little worried about that. Do you think you could run a preliminary scan right now to reassure him a little?::

::Sure can; Ah'll be right there. How's he doin'?::

::Better. He regrets what he did, and he's concerned about his present condition, so my preliminary conclusion is that suicidal ideation is not immediately evident. We don't know what triggered him, so we'll have to be on constant guard, but his emotional state right now seems appropriate for his circumstances.::

::Right. On ma way.::

A few minutes later, the smaller bot sauntered into the medbay and perched on the edge of the berth Raf's exam table lay on. It was sized for a larger bot, so there was plenty of room for Raf's exam table, Fig, Jazz, and half a dozen or so more humans.

"Hey," the saboteur (among the other hats he wore) said. "How ya doin', bud?"

"I don't know. I really messed up."

"Well...it's kinda hard to argue with that, but when ya really mess up, and then wake up in medbay without too many red flags plastered across yer HUD, it generally gets better."

"Will it, really?"

"Yeah, Raf, it will. You might have to work on it a while, but it will."

"If I did something to my programming, can you fix it?"

"It'd be a real convoluted situation if Ah can't. But you're gonna have to trust me, OK? Whatever ya show me, it's between th' two of us. My only job here today is to make sure ya don't have any badly-written code that could hurt ya or be a danger to ya later."

Raf was a highly skilled programmer himself, and understood the layers of what he had been told. "I understand. I trust you, Jazz."

Jazz said, "Thanks, kiddo. Fig, ya give me yer permission to do this?"

"Yes, Jazz. Take good care of my boy, please?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay. Please help him."

"Could you and Jolt step outside the curtain an' put up a privacy screen? Prowl's coverin' for me if anythin' happens 'fore Ah'm done here, so don't disturb us unless the place is fixin' t' fall down on our heads."

Being interrupted at the wrong moment could mean that both of them ended up with their memories in disarray. A defrag after that was always a long, involved mess.

Jolt courteously extended his servo to offer Fig an elevator ride down from the berth, erected the requested privacy screens, and took Fig with him when he left.

End Part Twenty-Five


	26. Chapter 26

Part Twenty-Six

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Unknown to anyone then in the base's medbay, Optimus Prime took a moment to inform Charlotte Mearing that he had chosen to ask for absolution rather than permission. Her reaction was predictably volcanic, and he roused the Aerialbots from recharge to bring her to the base.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

On the way to the medbay's office, Fig asked Jolt, "How long does analysis usually take?"

Jolt sat behind the medbay office desk. "It depends on the state of one's coding. Raf's situation is essentially that of a preprogrammed newspark, as a sizable minority of Cybertronians have always been. His coding should be in the same pristine state as that of any other newly onlined Pretender."

"What do you mean, preprogrammed?"

Jolt cocked his head. "How much do you know about Cybertronian procreation?"

"Only that little Seekers hatch, like the eggs Borealis is brooding."

Jolt placed Fig on the desktop, and Raf's uncle went to the human seating available. "Yes, but Seekers, as well as some very old lines of animalistic somatoforms, are a special case. Seekers are some of the oldest frametypes of sentient Cybertronians still in existence. Newer frametypes, like most of ours here, did things differently. There are essentially two states in which a non-Seeker newspark could enter the world from the All-Spark. The first is as a sparkling, a child. The other is as a preprogrammed bot. The bot's creators brought a protoform with the desired mods and programming to support the bot's intended function, and the Prime or one of the high priests summoned a spark compatible with that configuration."

"Okay," Fig said, seating himself, "but how does that relate to Raf?"

"Raf's case is more closely parallel to the preprogramming that occurs when a bot ages out of his or her frame and needs a complete reformat. In that case, the new protoform is designed to that bot's specifications, and preprogrammed to accept that particular spark. The design work didn't happen for Raf, of course, but the process after that is the same: the existing memory core is transferred, as Raf's was, or if that isn't possible, a new memory core is written with the bot's most recent backup. Then the spark is moved to the new frame."

"I see." Fig did, to his own surprise.

"The catch is that no one understands how the new spark appears when a human transitions to Cybertronian form. One moment, someone exists who is 100% human, and the next, the essence of that being becomes a completely normal Cybertronian spark. Ratchet has monitored the process the last few times it has taken place, but none of us understands exactly what it is that we are seeing." The young medic smiled at Raf's uncle. "Personally, I am willing to accept that we are witnesses to the miraculous."

"Jolt," said Jorge Figueroa, with a great deal of feeling, "you and me both. But I don't understand everything that's happening around the...transition. What's Raf's state at the moment? He seems disoriented. Is that normal?"

Jolt smiled more widely. "Very much so. It happens with every reformat, even a minor upgrade. The disorientation will persist until his processor integrates all the new programming. That takes almost no time when the modifications are minor and there is little new code involved. Raf's situation is that of a complete reformat with a total code rewrite to a new processor core. Among Cybertronians, it wouldn't be abnormal to require a full orn, almost two human weeks, to adjust."

Fig nodded slowly. "Makes sense. Do you think Raf's going to have, well, the equivalent of a traumatic brain injury?"

"No. He presents absolutely no structural abnormalities, which are the parallel to traumatic brain injury in humans. If there are programming issues, Jazz is extremely competent. If necessary, he'll work with Raf to rewrite any buggy programming modules from scratch. That should be fairly straightforward, because Raf hasn't had time to individualize his code very much."

Fig felt tensions he hadn't known were resident in his shoulders leave them. "How long does a session like this take?"

"It could be upwards of a joor, since Jazz has to do a code analysis without a previous backup for comparison. I'm afraid it will take as long as it takes, and we will simply have to wait until they are both satisfied that the process has been successfully completed."

Fig sighed with relief. "It sounds like he is in the best of servos."

"He is. I don't know if you're aware of this, but medics need to have our programming analyzed once every vorn. Medical programming is very complicated and it's simple for an error to creep in undetected. We have to be extremely vigilant against that. I have absolutely no hesitation in asking Jazz to perform such an analysis for me. It isn't pleasant, but Jazz is very skilled, thorough, and gentle. If there's a problem, he will find it and repair it without making Raf feel like his processor is about to blow out through his audials."

Fig grinned, a thing he had not expected to be able to do at all for days and days and days. _"Ay! _Sounds like some dentists I've known."

Jolt smiled back. "From hearing soldiers complaining about going to the dentist, I suspect that's an apt comparison."

Fig frowned, and fiddled with the shirttail of his guayabera for a moment. "If Raf is still suicidal, will Jazz be able to repair that?"

"Hmmm. That's an interesting question, and the best answer I can give is 'Maybe.' If Raf's issues translated as an actual faulty decision tree, or bad parameters in a comparative array which cause some distinct factor to be evaluated as being far more serious than it is in reality, it is entirely possible that repairing the damaged code would resolve the problem. But it's far more likely that the issue is rooted deep in memory. There is no quick fix for that. It requires essentially the same therapy that your people undergo in order to resolve such issues. But we will all see to it that such therapy is made available to Raf if it is needed."

Fig nodded, and yawned.

Jolt ran a fast scan on the sergeant and figured that he'd apologize for it later if he had to. "You must be exhausted," he said, a human expression he remembered, and far less likely to be taken offense at than _I just scanned you—you're running on adrenaline fumes and maybe fifteen minutes shy of dropping down unconscious._ "Why don't you let me put up a berth somewhere here in the office for you, so you can nap for a while? Raf will need you after the analysis is over. He's going to have to start facing the consequences of what he did, and Prime tells me they are considerable."

"That's probably the best thing. You'll call me immediately if Raf needs me?"

"Of course I will," said Jolt, found a human-sized cot, and pulled it out.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

About the time that Fig hit the sack, Silverbolt and his brothers were flying in formation over the Mississippi River. The FBI had a Gulfstream V executive jet to support the war on terror, and ferry its director around when his duties took him out of Washington DC.

NEST needed no such thing. Silverbolt had scanned various private and corporate jets and configured several transscans to meet the needs of NEST's leadership, as well as the those of the various Sectors. He carried a large collection of items and appliances in his subspace and could create everything from a full galley, luxury lounge, and office space for transporting VIPs, to a state of the art medical laboratory for Sector 8, to geological labs and mechanical bays for S9, to troop transport capabilities for NEST and S14.

He still had his original configuration for transporting Cybertronians from the Prime on down, of course. Additionally, he could become a mobile hospital and soup kitchen for disaster relief, something he had done in cooperation with various relief groups. His versatility got them a lot more flight hours than the rest of the team's fighter jet alt modes, powerful but limited, might have.

The other Aerialbots were beginning to seek out transcans for greater flexibility, as well. Soon, Silverbolt thought with pride, they all could fill many roles at need.

And hadn't they had fun getting to Washington in the shortest possible time...

For the return leg of this flight, Silverbolt had configured his cargo bay into executive-transport mode. The Aerialbots made the round trip to and from DC faster than Charlotte Mearing could fly one-way on a government jet, and they saved the agency a great deal of money as well.

Mearing travelled with a much smaller entourage than most people in her position. Li, in appearance merely a secretary, in actuality her bodyguard and all-around right hand, was always with Mearing. When not needed elsewhere, Simmons took the other security position. Due to his natural streak of paranoia, he did not trust anyone else with her safety. If Li was Mearing's right hand, Simmons was her left.

On the rare occasion that he couldn't travel with her, he made it known to the rest of her guards that he had both a gun and a shovel handy for graves, digging of; given enough time, he could find anyone anywhere in the world, _especially someone who failed Mearing_. He had proven the first part of that statement to be true often enough for no one to doubt the last.

Occasionally, her entourage was completed by specialists in whatever their mission happened to be, drawn from NEST or one of the Sectors. This time, though, it consisted only of Li and Simmons and Mearing: shit needed to be shoveled, and it was such high-level shit that only they could shovel it.

Usually, when Silverbolt gave Mearing a lift, she and her people worked non-stop throughout the flight. Now, Li was in the galley making tea, and Simmons was doing something on his laptop. Occasionally, he reached over to touch his mate's arm or quietly ask how she was doing, and then she would look up and say a few words. But mostly she watched the lights of towns and cities roll beneath them, a pensive expression on her face.

Li brought the ex-spy a cup of tea. "Director, is there anything that I can be doing?"

"Thank you, Li," Mearing said, taking the cup. "Until I figure out what the situation is, exactly, not much. We definitely need a new identity for the Esquivel boy, so would you mind doing some preliminary research around that? I don't want to finalize the identity until I hear Jazz' ideas. With a child that age, it's always better to use as much of their input in their new identity as possible so that they can adjust to using it."

"Director, I'll get right on it." Li went back to her seat and pulled out her laptop.

"Thank you, Li." Charlotte Mearing raised her voice. "Silverbolt, what's our ETA?"

"Approximately three hours at normal cruising speed. Do you need to be there sooner, ma'am?"

Getting there faster would mean climbing to a low earth orbit where the Cybertronians could make full use of their interplanetary flight capacity, then reinserting over Nevada, but that would burn energon and subject the humans to a few more G's than they were accustomed to pulling. But man, that had been a lot of fun on the way in...

However, Mearing knew she could use, she _needed_, the time in the air to think their way out of this mess. She intended to kick some skidplate when she landed, and she was by God looking forward to it. "No, thank you, Silverbolt, that will be fine."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Stefania Figueroa braced herself to view Raf's body. At least, due to the possibility of contagion, it was through a window. But even knowing that she would be seeing a living Raf very soon, the sight of his broken, beaten, discarded body was too much, and she burst into tears. "I can't—I'm sorry, I can't bear to see him like that."

"Yes, ma'am," said the hospital morgue attendant, on the verge of tears himself. He pulled the curtain. "Let's go sit in the meditation room. You don't need to apologize. Grief affects everyone differently, and there isn't any right or wrong. There's just how you feel."

Stefania used a tissue. "What happens now?"

"The medical examiner will be taking the body soon. They will notify you when they're ready to release it to your funeral director." He kept to himself that this might be a formality, but they had to rule out that Raf had been pushed, instead of jumping. "Will your husband be coming?"

"No, I'll be signing the papers. Jorge went to tell our children."

"I see. Would you like a cup of coffee, or could I get you something else?"

"May I have a bottle of water?"

"Of course. I'll be back in just a moment."

Stefania dabbed at her eyes with the sodden tissue. Before long, the family liaison returned with her spring water and a clipboard of papers that needed to be signed.

She was surprised at how little time it took to put an official end to a life, never having done this paperwork before. Once she had signed all of the forms, the liaison folded her copy and placed it into an envelope.

As Stefania took it from him, she asked, "Is this the...the death certificate?"

The man shook his head. "No, that won't be available until the medical examiner files his report. This is confirmation that Raf has passed, and acknowledges our custody of his remains. The funeral director will give you as many copies of the certificate itself as you'll need, as part of the final arrangements."

Stefania's phone rang: Sideswipe. "My ride is here, and I need to go."

The man rose and held the door for her, proffering a business card. "I'm very glad you have transport. This phone number is a resource if you have any further questions, or you can always call the hospital here."

"Thank you," Stefania said, and fled.

She left the hospital, and Sides, with his holo-driver in place, pulled around for her, opening his door. She sat down and burst into tears; Sideswipe shut his door, wrapped the seatbelt around her, and pulled out gently, for a given value of Sideswipe.

Stefania was beyond caring. It was over, finally, and she and Fig had won Raf back to themselves.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Jazz sent ::Jolt, ah'm finished here for the time bein',:: as he said to Raf, "Okay, here's where we are. Zero physical defects, no major or even big minor programming problems, just a few things I'll take care of in another visit after things've settled down a bit and you've had a recharge cycle. Those minor problems ain't likely to pop up, but if one does, you comm me. I'll get here in a hurry an' we'll fix it."

Raf said, "Okay, I will. Thank you." The mechling took a deep breath. "Jazz...how do I tell _Tio _Jorge and _Tia _Stefania about..."

"You just tell them, kid. There's no good way to break that news. You just tell them."

Raf nodded. "All right. I will. Jazz...how old am I now?"

"That's a good question. You just recently became an adolescent, right?"

"Yes, right before I had my thirteenth birthday a few months ago."

"Well, you're about the same. Yer protoform configured itself t' be a new mechling, someone who just got their reformat from their sparkling frame t' their mechling frame."

Raf nodded. That had stayed the same, while everything else about him changed.

Jazz' faceplates fell into a serious expression. He almost looked like a stranger when he said, "Raf, ya need to tell your aunt and uncle what Sally did when she sneaked into yer hospital room. She deliberately provoked ya to attempt suicide. She's a menace. She might need help, but she's still a menace. Best to stop her before she victimizes somebody else."

Raf sighed. "I know. I will."

"OK. Want me to see if Fig and Stefania are out there now?"

"Yes, thank you. Jazz, thanks for everything."

A warm smile crossed the silver bot's faceplates before he hopped off the berth and went looking for the kid's family. Maybe Ratchet was right about his skills being helpful, rather than harmful, after all...

He didn't have far to go to find Raf's aunt. His uncle had been asleep in the office, and was wakened; his first words were the same as Stefania's had been. "How is he?"

"He's good. He wants to see you both now. He has a couple of things he really wants t'talk to you about."

They ducked under the curtain and climbed the ladder to the top of the berth, then went to either side of Raf's gurney. Stefania's tears began to leak; she held him close, then put him at arm's length so she could look at him, then close again, until he put his servos very carefully on her forearms and said, "_Ay_, _Tia_ Stefania, you're making me dizzy."

Then of course she grabbed him close and cried all over his armor, only stopping to hold him once again at arm's length and say, "Why are you dressed exactly like _mi Jorge_?"

"Well, I—I umm—I, uh—I, I needed some clothes, so I just scanned what he was wearing."

Fig grinned. "I guess no matter how you enter the world, you arrive naked as a jaybird!"

Raf turned so red it was a miracle he didn't deep-fry his color nanites, but at least Stefania smiled and laughed, even as her tears continued to flow.

Raf sat tailor-fashion on the gurney, holding one of their hands in each of his. "I have some bad news, and I don't know how to tell you. Jazz said just to say it."

"Okay," Fig said. "Just say it."

The cleaning fluid pooled in Raf's optics again. "I found Mama...or at least I found out what happened to her. She went to San Diego, because she got a good job out there working for some company that makes solar panels. But about a week after the Battle of Chicago, Mama...was in a car accident. A hit-and-run driver killed her."

"Are you sure?" Fig said, his mouth quivering. Stefania's free hand closed around his.

Raf nodded. "There was a picture with her obituary. She hadn't given the company any information on her next of kin, so her friends buried her out there." Raf wiped his optics. "I guess...she wanted to make a new start, get on her feet, before she came back to visit. I'm so sorry, _Tio_ Jorge."

Suddenly understanding, Stefania said, "Oh, Raf. You found this out Friday night, didn't you? _This_ was why...oh, _hijo_. You were grieving for your mother..."

He nodded. "That was the biggest part but it was...Dad didn't want me," said Raf, looking down and missing a scowl like thunder crossing Fig's face, "and...and...Sally...it just all piled up, and my hobby knife was there."

All three of them mourned together for a time, then Raf said, "There's something else. The night I jumped? Sally Vanderpool came to see me."

"That little—! What the fuck?" said Fig, in a tone that would have frightened anyone serving under him, and really alarmed Stefania.

Raf took a steadying breath. "She was furious with me, for ruining her life and getting her kicked out of school. That's the way _she_ looked at it, anyway. I was just going to have the nurses throw her out, but then she said some things...she asked me what was wrong with me that no one wanted me. I don't know now why I listened to her, but at the time, I just felt like such a screw-up and—I know now it was stupid! But at that moment, it was just so clear that everyone would be better off without me. And I could see Mama again."

Fig saw red, literally: anger dilated the blood vessels in his eyes until their color stained everything he saw. He roared a series of curses in English and Spanish, and leaped up, fully intending to go to Tranquility, find Sally Vanderpool, and cut her throat.

That was normal behavior on the battlefield, and if Lennox had been there, he might have reassured Stefania. But he wasn't, and this Jorge she had never seen before terrified her.

Raf was no less terrified. But he knew what to do without having to think it through, in spite of his terror: he transformed to root mode and jumped over Fig, grabbed him from behind so Fig couldn't hit him and break his own hand.

He wrapped his long tail around his uncle's legs after a hard kick to Raf's shin made a red light flash on his HUD. The two of them rolled off the berth and Raf managed to twist to land on the bottom, knowing he could really hurt Fig if he landed on him.

Stefania screamed, then scrambled down the ladder and dived under the curtain. "Help, it's Fig, he's gone _loco!"_

Jolt pulled the curtain out of the way and helped Raf restrain Fig, long enough for Dr. Parker to draw up an injection and bring it over. With Jolt's help, they got Fig, struggling madly in their combined grips and shouting about that little _putita_, turned over on his stomach, and Parker jabbed the needle into his hip right through his pants.

It wasn't an intravenous injection, but it didn't take long before the NEST sergeant's struggles eased, and with the drug taking the edge off, he passed out cold, surrendering to fatigue a solid week in accumulation.

"What the hell happened?" Parker said, taking her patient's pulse.

Stefania's eyes flashed fire. "Raf told us that..._Vanderpool girl_ sneaked into the hospital and incited Raf to jump off the roof."

She was a mother herself, and Parker's mouth compressed into a thin line. "I hope they lock her up for the rest of her life."

Raf sat back against the side of the berth and wrapped his arms and his tail around himself. "Is he going to be OK? I never saw him like that. He was so scary."

Parker left her patient and knelt beside him. "Raf?"

He nodded. "But you can't tell anybody. Jazz says I'll need a new ID because officially I'm dead."

Parker said, "No problem, kiddo. What happens on base, stays on base. And, yes, most likely once he gets some rest, he'll be OK. After the week he's had, I think he's entitled to flip out. I'm going to order him off duty until he sees Dr. Boggs." She transferred her gaze to Stefania. "If I could I'd order the same thing for all of your family, so I hope you'll take my advice and go to counseling. You've been through a horrible experience, even your kids."

Stefania nodded. "I think we would have asked if you hadn't offered."

"Good. I'll write the referral for everyone in your family and Boggs will be in touch." Parker gave Raf a long measuring look. "Son, if you need to talk to someone, no matter what it's about, call me. I'm on the list of people that you can call any time at all, OK? This's my private number." She scribbled it down semi-legibly, and handed him the scrip form.

"I understand," Raf said, and accepted the slip of paper. "_Gracias. _I am so, so sorry for all of the trouble I caused. I'll never do it again, I swear. If I ever feel like that again, I'll find somebody to talk to. I promise."

"Good, Raf. I'm glad to hear that." Parker smiled. "Now let's get this big lunk into a bed and we'll let him sleep off the tranq, okay?"

Raf picked his uncle up as if Fig were made of feathers; Stefania's eyes widened. "Sure. Where do you want him?"

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The door to Optimus Prime's office was not knocked upon so much as assaulted at 6:07 AM Pacific Time, just as the Figueroas' conversation with Raf wound down.

Optimus smiled. He'd expected that energy signature to arrive in such a fashion. He sent the codes to open the door.

At the same time, the door between his quarters and his office opened, and one Diarwen ni Gilthanel marched in.

Charlotte Mearing entered, followed by Li and Simmons.

Mearing gave Diarwen a lance of a look. "Your presence is not wanted, my lady."

Diarwen inclined her head. "Your pardon, Director, but Sideswipe is otherwise occupied, and so I am fulfilling bodyguard duty for the moment."

"And you believe that you need to guard Optimus against _me_?" Mearing began to climb the stairs to the human seating on Optimus' desk, and he lifted Diarwen to the desktop.

"Director, at the moment your fields would seem to indicate that necessity, yes."

Mearing, who would have dismissed with a snort the idea that she was even aware of others' auras, was nonetheless an extremely competent reader thereof. As Optimus Prime and Simmons looked at one another with "What do we do about these femmes?" in the eyes or optics of each, Mearing eyed Diarwen, and reached a conclusion.

"Are you aware of the decision made on behalf of Rafael Esquivel?"

"I am aware that he is now our youngest Pretender, Director, yes."

Mearing snorted, and fire flashed behind her heavy glasses. "Fine. Optimus, do you know how many ways this could have blown up in our faces?"

Optimus sat, and folded his servos in front of himself. "Prowl tells me that the number is unacceptably large."

"Fine. I'm glad _somebody_ knows that. What possessed you to risk this entire operation to save one sub-adult civilian's life?"

"The fact, I think, that he is a sub-adult civilian. Believe me, Director, I looked at the possibilities, and I made utterly sure I had his guardian's full consent. If it became known that I refused to save Raf, how could any human member of NEST have trusted me, ever again?"

"If the transition had failed you would have been charged as an accessory before the fact in a murder case!"

Optimus smiled. "No, Director, I believe we were adequately safeguarded against that."

"Fine. Tell me why you think so."

Optimus recapped. Transition in an ambulance: if it failed the protoform would simply have been returned. Paperwork for patient transfer filled out; Mearing's mouth thinned at the mention of Jazz' input, and far from relaxing, her scowl deepened when he finished.

"Fine. Now tell me how I am to explain the presence of a previously-unknown youngling Transformer! You know that this base is always the target of photographers with long-range telephoto lenses. What the dickens are we going to do about that?"

"Rely on our knowledge of which areas of the base are and are not visible to a photographer outside the fence with even the best of lenses. We are also aware of the presence of humans around the perimeter of the base who are hoping that they are undetected." He smiled, very slightly, at his Consort. "We will persuade Raf to alter his human-alt appearance in a number of small ways, so that he comes to resemble his former self only slightly. Whenever the next new group of Autobots arrives, we will report one additional arrival—a youngling so badly damaged that he must be reformatted into one of our Pretender frames. Right now, once Raf is released from medbay, we are lodging him within Excellion. Sergeant Figueroa will find himself assigned there more frequently for a time. Raf will also spend some time among the other Pretenders," said Optimus, and saw Mearing's brows come down. "He will be required to remain in root mode whenever he is outdoors or anywhere else that he might be seen by outsiders."

"Optimus. That's all well and good, but for God's sake, you put the entire Pretender program at risk of discovery, and your own people's presence in this country as well! I don't know who I'm working with any longer!"

"Charlotte, tell me this: if you had known this was happening, and that I could have saved the child's life and chose not to, what would you have thought of me then?"

Mearing's mouth opened and shut several times.

Optimus said gently, "There is also one more thing my actions have accomplished that you are not taking into account."

"Oh dear God, what might _that_ be?"

"I saved a life," Optimus Prime said, folding his servos across his bellyplates, "and you do not have to remember that you ordered me not to."

End Part Twenty-Six


	27. Chapter 27

Part Twenty-Seven

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Routed, Charlotte bid a terse farewell to Optimus, and betook her thoughts to medbay.

Where she found herself routed again: Ratchet flatly refused Mearing's request to talk to Raf until after the mechling had a full recharge cycle. He was in full "I am the god of medbay" mode, and not even Mearing had the nerve to argue with that.

Simmons suggested, "Let's get a cup of coffee." The three of them, Li on six and Simmons eyes-ahead, went past Admin, where Sideswipe was still busy with whatever situation had kept him out of the meeting earlier.

Mearing did not know that Sides had been asked by Diarwen to handle that mess, actually; she was going to be with Optimus when he faced Mearing, and that was that. One guards one's beloved against the hazards he may not have known he faced.

So the upper management of NEST took their drinks through the galley, busy serving breakfast, past the teenagers' den, where Shad and Evanon were studying, and out into the commons, where they sat down.

Simmons said, "That was an...interesting...interaction between you and Lady Diarwen. I don't know what threat she thought you'd present to Optimus, but she was there to stop you from doing...whatever it was you might have done."

"Yes, she was," Mearing agreed.

Simmons said, "I'm concerned that she implied you'd need us there as bodyguards."

"Seymour, Optimus and his people might be welcome here, but they are still exiles in a friendly country. That's all it was about." She sniffed. "That, and preserving his autonomy. If you've figured out how that deadly little Sidhe was going to do that for him, you're ahead of me there."

"Huh," said Simmons, who didn't really care. It was his job to protect Mearing from the kind of physical threat that Diarwen _could _represent if she wanted to.

"For two cents, I'd let him explain himself to POTUS. I'm not looking forward to that. You know what the unofficial West Wing motto is? 'Don't do anything stupid.' This could be defined as a certain value of stupid. And it happened on my watch."

"Charlotte, remember that Optimus let you know _after the fact._ Let him take the heat from POTUS. He's earned it."

"Even if his ass is on the stove, I'm the burner. Heat gets transferred through me, Seymour, if you had forgotten that."

He tilted his head and looked her in the eyes. "If you get fired, you can help me write my next book."

Mearing's mouth quirked in spite of herself. "Thank you, Seymour."

"You're welcome." Simmons had some more coffee.

Li sat with her hands folded in front of her, eyes on them and not her boss, apparently not paying any attention whatever to this conversation. Charlotte knew, however, that Li could transcribe it accurately, six months after the fact if the need arose. She was also aware of the movement of all the humans and bots nearby. Should the need arise, Li equalled the danger Simmons presented.

A short while later, Jolt came out. "Director Mearing, Ratchet would like to see you before you speak to our young patient."

Mearing stood. "You two wait here."

When Mearing stepped into the triage area of medbay, all of the human side treatment areas were empty but the one on the far end. That one had the curtain drawn around it. On the bot side, one of the tractor gestalt—she could not tell the green bots apart—was lying on a berth with a fresh weld on his shin plate. He did not look up as she passed, though she nodded to him.

She tapped on Ratchet's office door, and presently the human-sized door opened. "Come in, Director. Would you like to sit down?"

She took the steps to the top of his desk, and took a seat. "Thank you. You wanted to see me?"

The medic sat back in his chair and made full optic contact. "Yes. Before I let you see Raf, I want to know what you intend to do. Because if you're planning on lecturing him, or yelling at him, or anything else that might set back his recovery, you can leave right now."

Mearing sighed. "I don't intend to punish him. If he hasn't learned his lesson in the school of hard knocks, then nothing I can say is going to help. I need to make sure that he understands his situation, and that he understands how to avoid becoming a further security risk. He's now the weakest link in S-14, mostly because he's only thirteen. There are a lot of things he may not understand that he has to, and since some of them involve restrictions we must place on him, we can't afford to wait for a better day to explain them to him. I don't want him to think those restrictions are a punishment. Do you?"

Ratchet shook his massive helm. "No, I don't. I agree that he needs that explanation. But I can't help thinking if it had been up to you, you would have let him die. I think Optimus knew that, which is why he opted for forgiveness rather than permission.

"That puts you and me right back to square one, and you're on probation in my medbay until you earn my trust again, which might take longer than your species' lifespan. He's a child. For Primus' sake, who prioritizes politics and convenience before a child's life?"

"I would have had to weigh one life against the considerable risk to the lives of all the other Pretenders if this got out," Mearing said shortly. "Do you know how many humans, adults and children alike, die every single day because they don't have the option to transition? Do you have any idea what would happen to our Pretenders if it became public knowledge that we have this technology at our disposal? Every one of them would become a potential guinea pig for whatever filthy rich bastard decided to bankroll his own project.

"If you want to define that as politics or convenience, fine. You've had to make decisions based on triage criteria. How is this any different, and where in the _hell_ do you get off judging me?"

Ratchet scowled. "Because I've been making decisions based on triage criteria since your people were planting seeds with sharpened sticks. If you're defending letting a child die to protect a bunch of grown-aft adults who can take care of themselves perfectly well, then I don't know what criteria you're using, but they don't fly with me."

Mearing restrained an impulse to throw up her hands. "Fine. What's done is done; if mine was the cooler head here, it lost. For whatever it's worth, Ratchet, Prime made the call and that's where it stands, unless the President of the United States decides to object. Which he won't, because you do seem to have made sure nothing will leak. At this point, I just have to keep it that way. And for what it's worth, I'm glad the kid is going to be all right. But: the next time you people decide to create a situation involving a new identity for somebody, especially a kid, try to give me a little advance notice, all right?"

Ratchet snorted. "Go talk to Raf. He's over there in that curtained-off treatment bay with his uncle."

"What's the situation with Figueroa?"

"I'm not his doctor; you'll have to talk to Parker about him. But if Fig is sleeping, I wouldn't wake him up if I were you, or Parker might have something to say about it."

"I won't. I've already offended one God of Medbay today."

Ratchet snorted. "Get out of my office."

Charlotte Mearing rose. "No problem. I've been thrown out of better places than this."

Walking away, she had to admit that, once again, Optimus Prime had made the right call. He remained too courteous to give her the straight talk that Ratchet had, and even though her pride was still stinging, she now understood the Cybertronians a little better, and she had important data to take into consideration the next time she had to make a call involving them. Sparklings and younglings, as well as the human children under their protection, went to the top of the priority list, no matter the reason.

If she needed more reason than she already had, she made a mental note never to piss Ratchet off unless a shit-ton of coalescing factors made it absolutely, positively, unarguably necessary.

Would she trust the irascible medic with her life? Yes, she would, even after said shit-ton had come into play. Dammit.

She pulled the curtain back a little bit. Raf, a somewhat disconcerting sight in root mode (spiny plates and barbed tail much in evidence), sat on the floor on the far side of the bay's bed, between the bed and the wall.

Sgt. Figueroa was sound asleep in that bed.

Raf had a datapad, but he put it down and stood when he saw her. "Umm, Director Mearing. Good morning."

"Raf, I need to talk to you, but Ratchet said not to wake your uncle."

"Dr. Parker said he won't wake up for a while, and if he does, he'll go right back to sleep."

"OK, then, we'll just keep our voices down, I guess. Raf, how are you doing?"

"I'm OK, I think."

"That's good. I'm glad to hear it. A lot of people have been really worried about you."

Raf's cheekplates turned red, just as they would have in his alt-mode. "I-I know. I'm sorry."

"I know you are. Raf, it's going to be all right, now that you're safe. But there are some things that we need to talk about. Jazz or maybe your uncle might have already brought up some of it, but I wanted to make sure you understand what's happening and why, OK?" Mearing, skirt, pumps and all, managed to sit on the floor.

"OK." Raf, wary, sat back down in his place.

"I take it you already know that we have to keep you under wraps for a while, and that's why you're staying out of sight in here with your uncle?"

"Yes, Director. Jazz told me everyone outside is going to have to think I died. I have to have a secret identity now. He said that the next time refugees come, they're going to sneak me in with them."

"That's right. But until then, we have one more Pretender than we can account for. You'll be spending some time with the other Pretenders in S-14 until we can move you out with the rest of us. When you're with them, you need to stay in root mode. If they're in formation, you're someplace else, in case someone with a telescope counts heads. Otherwise, stay in the middle of the group and don't attract attention."

"Yes. As soon as Ratchet says it's OK, they're going to move me up to Excellion. I guess I have a lot to learn now."

"I should say you do. A very good friend of mine, Annika, became a Pretender a little while ago. We've talked a few times when I was able to go out to Portland and visit her. As a matter of fact, I hope I can look in on her today before I have to fly back to DC. She says there are a lot of new skills that you need to master pretty quickly."

He indicated the datapad. "I'm starting to figure that out. I thought I understood Cybertronian fairly well, and I guess I did, at least everyday conversation."

The boy—mechling—did not pause, but Mearing thought, _He understood daily conversations in Cybertronian _while he was still human_? Best keep an eye on this one. He's got a brain. Processor._

Unaware of that, Raf continued, "I downloaded the language just a while ago, and there's a lot I didn't understand, some of it because I couldn't hear it. Those extra senses, and not just the extended ones...some of them, I don't know how to use yet. The drivers for all the sensors are there and the data's coming in, but I haven't learned how to interpret it. And there are a lot of transformation things—switching back and forth from alt mode to root mode is about all I can do. I've seen the other pretenders pull in their spikes and tail barbs—or make claws—but I don't know how to do that yet. And I'm stronger than before. I'm afraid I'll hurt somebody or break things."

"You're a smart kid, Raf. If you're aware of those issues, you'll be careful until you get the hang of your new body."

He nodded. "I hope it's enough," he said.

"Pretty sure it will be. If it's not, you apologize and make amends the best way you can, and go on.

"Jazz told you that you need to hide out, but do you understand why you have to do that? I don't want you to think it's a punishment. There are some very good reasons, and all of the other Pretenders also have to be careful that nobody finds out about their human past. Did anyone explain why?"

"Because legally it's murder to transition someone."

"That's a big part of it. And, you know what? Your uncle, Optimus, Ratchet, Jazz, Jolt, Dr. Pierpoint, Emery McKuen—they all decided they were going to take the chance they might get arrested because they love you so much, they couldn't let you die as long as there was any chance they could save you, no matter what it cost them.

"Raf, I can't pretend to know what caused you so much pain that you'd do what you did, but whatever it was, you have an amazing group of people who will stand right beside you and help you get through it if something like that ever happens to you again. The next time it hurts, reach out to them and let them help you."

Raf nodded. "Yes. Director, I—it all seems so distant now, the way I felt when I—when I thought I had to do that. I can't say it won't ever come back, but next time, I think I'll know I don't have to—to do what I did."

"Good. Really, Raf, I'm very glad to hear you say that. It's the best outcome we could hope for."

He nodded again.

She could tell he was still wary of her. She sighed, and leaned back against the wall. "You know, you beat some really long odds. You were in the right place at the right time, and you knew the right people, to be rescued like this. Most people will never have that opportunity, because there aren't enough Pretender frames to go around, not for even a tiny fraction of the people who might need one. Even though we would like to make this available to everyone who would like to do it, we just can't. It is simply impossible to build billions of Pretender frames. Most people are going to live and die as humans, just as we always have. And if some of those people ever found out, they would see you and the other Pretenders as a way to find out how to make their own frames so that they can live for thousands of years too. And I don't think they'd necessarily care what happened to you in the process."

Raf said nothing, but his optic lenses spiralled wide open.

Mearing gave him a moment to settle himself. "People do know there are Pretenders, Raf, but they don't know any of you used to be human, and they can't ever find out. Do you understand now?"

"Yes. We, my cousins and I, already know that's one reason why we can't talk about S14 anywhere outside. I just never thought about those people hunting me before."

"That's why we need to hide you. We can't have people asking questions about where that new bot came from."

"What about my dad? Will they tell him?"

Mearing noted that Raf himself didn't seem to know whether or not that would be a good idea. "I don't know yet. I want to talk to Jazz and Agent Simmons about that, and find out a little bit more about who your dad really is, before I decide."

Raf sighed. His father seemed a ghost, fading a little further from view every time someone talked about him. "Yes, Director."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Mearing and Li left Simmons with Jazz in the parking lot where the Cybertronians typically spent a few hours a day recharging in the sun. They crossed the airstrip and walked down the street of new housing units built there for S14.

These looked no different on the outside from the existing base housing units, identical two-up-two-down apartments. Inside, the difference was that the units had no kitchens, and both units on a floor shared a scaled down version of a Cybertronian wash rack. That allowed the living area of each apartment to be a little bigger.

Inside, it looked like any United States military barracks that she had ever seen: neat as a pin, with an institutional feel that the personalization each occupant was encouraged toward in their assigned space really didn't change very much. Annika shared one bedroom of their top-floor apartment with Greta Morse, with their Group Three teammates Nita Clay and Soletta Davis sharing the other. At the moment, Nita and Soletta were out somewhere, and Greta had some sort of energy weapon in pieces on the table in front of her as she worked through an assignment on a datapad.

She stood as Annika let Mearing in. "Good morning, Director."

"Good morning, Morse. Ironhide has you busy, I see."

"Yes, sir. It's a little more complicated than field-stripping a rifle."

"So I see! Carry on."

Greta Morse folded her lanky form back down onto her chair and did so. At Mearing's nod, Li sat down with her, and introduced herself, then fell silent.

Mearing accompanied Annika Whitt to the other end of the large common room. She recognized some of the furniture and decor in Annika's corner of the space from the last time she had visited her friend in the Company's convalescent home.

Conspicuous by its absence was all the medical equipment and paraphernalia Annika had required to support her fragile human body. Now she moved again with the grace of a dancer, recalling to Mearing their years of service together.

Annika sent a glyph to a control box on the wall, which looked like a high-tech thermostat: but Charlotte knew it had many more functions besides regulating the room's temperature. At Charlotte's curious glance, she explained, "I switched on this area's privacy screen, so that you and I can talk, and Greta need not feel self-conscious about swearing at her assignment in front of you. I fear that Li must take her chances. Sit, _bitte._"

Charlotte laughed and made herself comfortable.

Li at that moment was saying in tones of real curiosity, "That piece you called a goddamned motherfucker just now—what does it do?"

"Goddamned motherfucking nothing, until I get the goddamned motherfucker put back together. Um. Sorry. It's _supposed_ to regulate the charge to the...crap, I forgot."

"That's all right. It doesn't sound like I would have understood it, anyway."

"You and me both, sister," Morse said passionately. "Wanna cuppa tea?"

Half the room away, Annika said hopefully, "Would you like tea?"

"Yes, thank you, I'd love a cup."

Annika busied herself with measuring tea and preparing a small bowl of sugar cubes. "You've spoken with our newest recruit?"

"Yes. Annika, does everyone know the situation?"

"The Cybertronians and Pretenders all do. It would be difficult to miss the sudden appearance of a very young new individual in the local network. The humans, no, I don't think so."

The business of tea and sugar cubes resolved, Annika drew an aluminum teakettle from the cupboard and filled it, filled the teapot with hot water from the spout, then placed the palmar surface of her servo on the kettle's bottom, and drove thermal energy through it. "Yes. But we have an all-personnel meeting at 1700h, and non-resident personnel with low security clearances have been asked to leave the base before that assembly. I suspect that Colonel Lennox will address us all concerning the situation at that time. It will be necessary for all the civilians to understand the new security precautions we must put into place."

"Yes. I've also asked Dr. Parker to distribute an addendum to all human residents' living wills regarding their desires should the possibility of transition come up when they are unable to speak for themselves. We were fortunate that Raf's family had no objections, but that's a piece of good luck we can't trust to again."

Annika nodded. "No, we should not trust to luck over something that urgent. Having a family kick up a stink is absolutely the last thing we need. Mr. Hastings told me that it is not just a possible Pretender who gets vetted. The family is looked at too."

Mearing shrugged. "There's no way around that."

Annika smiled in agreement. "No. I have also had some chats with the young linguistic psychologist Mr. Hastings hired to catch the phrasing that might indicate a candidate's religious opposition to the idea of transition. Fascinating stuff, Charlotte. But it has made me aware that if someone had asked me about this before I was attacked, my answer would have been very different."

"It would surprise me greatly to learn that it wouldn't. Annika, you're in touch with some colleagues who are now cleared for transition. What sense do you have of the concerns of folks in Portland? Do they know we've had to be concerned with the increased surveillance here?"

Annika replied, "They are a bit anxious over the delay occasioned by the decision to hold out as long as their health permits; understandably so. Do you remember Chet Haddon? He died two days before he was due to transition."

"Yes," Charlotte replied quietly. "I attended his funeral."

Annika's face fell into lines of sorrow. "I wanted more than anything to do so, and could not. Charlotte, some of our friends in Portland have long training in strategy, in thinking both ahead and outside the box. I hope you will not take it amiss if I tell you they are discussing how to put it to Frank Hastings that finding us a more remote location to train after transition makes a lot of sense. If we had another base, we could play a shell game, cycling people back and forth, for the confusion of those who have us under surveillance."

"I'll talk to Hastings about that. It sounds practical. I'm sure somewhere there's a mothballed base in the middle of nowhere with a runway that we could reactivate for you. We can't let a crowd of paparazzi and UFO hunters put the whole S14 program on hold, and the people you talked to might just have figured out the best way to avoid that."

The teakettle began to whistle, and Annika put it down, poured the warming water out of the teapot, inserted the teaball, and poured the kettle's contents over it. (Nearly-instant _real_ tea lies among the true advantages of having a Pretender for a friend.) "Plan for the worst, and be grateful when things are less bad than that. I see I have taught you well, Charlotte."

"You did. There ways in which I can never be grateful enough to you, Annika."

"Pish and tosh. You sent me a telegram some years ago which more than repaid me."

Quite some years ago. That telegram let Annika know that the persons responsible for her injuries had shuffled off the mortal coil. A mighty shove from one Charlotte Mearing assisted them; she was not on duty when this agreeable task was completed, and slept very well not despite but because of it.

The double murderess smiled down at the tea she stirred. "If you will. How are things for you here and now, Annika?"

"I am quite satisfied to be in this new circumstance, but it has been an adventure at times. Young Raf must feel somewhat over his head at the moment."

"Yes, he does, but I believe the full impact of that will come later. Right now I think he's happy to be here, transition or no."

"He is going to be S14's mascot from now on. If he feels the need for a cohort other than his human family, all of us will be available to him, as will the Cybertronian younglings. He is very much less alone than he was before this terrible trial began."

Annika took a sip of her tea. Without human senses, it was simply hot fluid; she thought she would see if Ratchet or Wheeljack might be wheedled into giving her the sensory mods needed to enjoy tea again.

"That's reassuring," Charlotte said, her brow wrinkling a bit. "He worries me. If he is still unstable, he could be a security threat to all of you. He needs to be protected, both for his sake and for yours."

The kettle whistled, and Annika poured hot water over the refilled tea ball. "At the very least, we can make sure that horrid girl never gets anywhere near him again. I wonder if there is any way to hold her parents accountable."

"No. The best we can do is confine her as someone who provided incitement to suicide. I'm told that Nevada law is not clear on whether she can be tried as an adult for that crime, but she'll be nineteen before she's turned loose. By that time, she should no longer be a threat to any of ours."

Annika shrugged. "Any number of things can happen in six years. If she is fortunate, she might meet someone who cares enough to actually parent her, and teach her the difference between right and wrong."

Charlotte looked out onto the desert, her teacup clutched in both hands. "I don't know if that is possible, nor if she should ever be allowed out of confinement. Not without a thorough evaluation, in any case. Not much scares me, but the depths of sociopathic behavior to which she sank, from a child so young? _That _scares me."

"That makes two of us. Did you know during the 1960s there was an idea kicked around within the Company to locate what they called 'bad seeds' while they were still very young, before they had a chance to mature into serial killers or the like, and indoctrinate them as expendable agents?"

"I had heard rumors of that," Charlotte said quietly. "The Company chased all sorts of wild hares in those days, the LSD experiments on college campuses, the distance viewing. But they didn't actually go through with that particular idea, did they?"

"Not to my knowledge."

Charlotte played mother, and poured them both another cup. "We never did find out if there ever was a Sector Twelve, Annika, much less what its mission might have been. Whenever I hear of something like that, I always have the bad feeling that someone's chickens are about to come home to roost in my henhouse."

"That is disconcerting, no?"

"Definitely on the list of things to worry about. Not as high as al Qaeda or its spawn, perhaps."

"I had such a list as well," Annika said. "We had a different set of bogeymen at that time, of course."

"They change, but the process doesn't," Mearing said. "We fear the monster _du jour_, but I think we should be more concerned about what we are becoming in response to all of the threats to our way of life."

"I had that concern myself, in my day," Annika agreed. "At that time, I wondered if the Cold War was not turning us into something worse than the Soviets. Now, the unrelenting enemy is 'terrorism.' And that has become a very wide net, which catches very little, it seems, that does not have to be thrown back."

"Yes."

"And now that we know that there are more frightening creatures in the galaxy than terrorists, who are after all of our own species? I fear that knowledge will bring out the worst humanity has to offer."

"We've tried to control the information, but that isn't always possible," Mearing said. "Some people I consider threats are placed far enough up in the hierarchy that I can't simply mark sensitive information 'Eyes Only' and lose it in a file drawer somewhere."

Annika nodded. "I don't think your predecessors ever truly had that power, Charlotte, not on any extensive level. They always had to be very selective about what was made to disappear."

"One of my major concerns is that too much power is accumulating in the hands of men like Hastings. We were lucky with him; he's someone we could bring into the tent. There are a few individuals out there..."

"There always have been."

Charlotte turned her teacup around on its saucer, gently. "There are no checks and balances on them. They truly are wealthy enough to be above the law. We have to depend on their sense of morality, but some of them lack one."

"Play them against each other. That's often the only recourse we have."

Mearing nodded, and sipped her tea. "I know. We have a different administration every eight years, sometimes every four years. Those who are wealthy enough to be powerful succeed one another in dynasties, which allows them to play a much longer game."

"Still, there are some moves denied to them. Gambits that they know they must not begin, or steps will be taken."

That calm statement wrinkled Mearing's brow, and whatever it was that got through the privacy screen, it caused Li to glance at her boss. "What if they've developed countermoves for those steps?"

"Then we'll have a _coup d'etat _on our hands, and those will be interesting days indeed," Annika replied, her serenity unshaken.

Interesting perhaps, but nothing either wanted to witness. They spent their professional lives preventing it, and counted that a life well lived.

End Part Twenty-Seven


	28. Chapter 28

Part Twenty-Eight

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

As Mearing and Annika discussed life, and Li acquired new combinations of swear words, Stefania and Jorge brought all of their children save Pedrito to a small room in the Admin building, accessible only through medbay.

Raf came into the room, having extruded his favorite shirt and cargo shorts. The girls screamed and rushed to him; he picked them up, one in each arm, and twirled around with them. Then Juan punched him in the arm, and was sorry for it, but didn't let that stop him from a reach-around-your-sisters hug.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

All afternoon, crews had been assigned to move furniture and configure the commons for an assembly. Closest to Admin, rows of folding chairs had been set up for the humans and the Pretenders, with room for the bots to line up behind them.

The only area that hadn't been disturbed was the daycare section, and Mo Epps and Sarah Lennox, who had been briefed previously, were caring for the smallest children there, one of them Pedrito Figueroa. Bobby Epps had thrown a tent over one of the tables, creating a place for D'andre to retreat if he felt overwhelmed by all of the people, and some of the other kids had joined him. A pile of small children therein, and D'andre in his own corner, would likely sleep through the briefing.

Bots with truck forms had given rides to Borealis and some of the older bots who had trouble getting around. There was a bit of noise as bot-sized seating was moved around so that these bots didn't have to stand through the assembly. Brains, Wheelie, and a few other microbots got a lift from bots in the front row so that they could see what was going on.

Optimus Prime took his place in front of the catwalk, while Mearing, Lennox and Parker climbed the steps to stand at the railing.

Will Lennox nodded to the twins at the back of the assembly, and Sides and Sunstreaker closed the doors.

He said, "Consider this a top security briefing. All civilians present are covered by your non-disclosure agreements. Please turn off all your cell phones, pagers and other communications devices. Parents, please make sure your children comply."

There was a rustle of activity. After it died down, Prowl and Jazz scanned the commons to make sure nothing was broadcasting, then activated privacy screens over the entire assembly.

When that was finished, Lennox said, "I am sure by now that all of you have heard about the incident involving Rafael Esquivel. As a military unit, NEST is no stranger to loss. I don't think there's anyone here who hasn't been touched by the loss of a squadmate or close friend or family member. We accept that as the price we pay—freedom isn't free. But when our company loses a child, that's worse by orders of magnitude. Our children, our sparklings, are supposed to bury us, not the other way around. The past few days have been one of the most difficult challenges NEST has ever had to face, and you've met that challenge.

"After everything that we've seen in the past five years, I don't think anything should surprise us anymore. However, last night, we received _quite _a surprise. But. That surprise we have to keep to ourselves, because in the wrong hands this information could endanger all of us." He looked out for a moment, over a sea of vulnerable faces. "Last night, a group of people discovered the gravity of Raf's situation. They conducted an operation which resulted in Raf's transition to a Pretender frame."

Lennox was not expecting military decorum to hold through that. He allowed a few moments for the questions, confusion, and shouts and screams and tears of joy from the teenagers to settle down, then he gestured for Fig, Stefania and their family to bring Raf out.

The resulting racket threatened to blow the roof off the building, because the Transformers added their share.

Lennox settled them down again when it was possible to do so. "I think it's clear that we all rejoice with the Figueroas tonight. But this puts a great responsibility on every single one of us, NEST and civilians alike. Nobody can know this happened. Nobody can know we have another Pretender on the base whose presence we cannot explain.

"It also gives each one of us humans a decision to make. I hope it will be a long time before this ever becomes an issue for any of us. But I want all of you to think about what you would want to do if you were near death and could transition to a Pretender frame. Medbay will be distributing forms for every human on base. The decision is yours, but feel free to consult with the members of S14 and the medical staff, or to discuss your decision with anyone here on base before making that decision. Just like anything else in your living will, you can change it at any time by requesting another form from medbay and updating your file.

"No one outside the organization can know of Raf's transition, nor of your decision. I understand how difficult that is, and I know precisely what I'm asking of you. I have family and loved ones out there too. But you all know how many frames we have, and how many humans are on this planet. If word of this gets out, the result would be a disaster, and every single person now in a frame and not a body, whether human spark or Cybertronian, would be at risk."

He gave them time to grumble, but they didn't. "One day, that situation will change. One day, we will be able to provide a frame for anyone who wants to transition. Right now we do not have that capability. This technology, this knowledge, has fallen into our keeping against that day. Each and every one of you needs to step up and accept that responsibility."

For the third time, Lennox allowed the reaction to settle down.

"It's only natural that all of you have a lot of questions for Raf and his family, especially in light of the decisions that we all have to make for our own families. I'd like you to keep in mind that there's nothing they can tell you that S14 can't also tell you. Please respect the Figueroas' privacy and ask someone else.

"Also, a little reminder for the civilians: remember when you are out of doors on the west side of the base, people with binoculars might be able to read your lips, or even, if they have a parabolic mic, hear what you're saying. Now, we've always known that was a possibility but there are secrets and then there are secrets, and this one is not just a secret, but a secret whose compromise could cost you your life, and your family theirs. The simple rule of thumb is, don't discuss it outdoors. You'll see Raf outside with the other Pretenders in root mode. Don't attract attention to him. When he settles on a new name and call sign, use them. And use your common sense.

"As far as anyone outside this base can know, we are still in mourning. When you kids go to school, you're going to have to act like nothing's changed. That isn't going to be easy. You can't tell your best friends, not even if you make them promise not to tell anyone else. There are people out there who would hurt Raf if they found this out, so you have to protect him by not telling anyone at all. That's hard, and I know it: we all have comrades we want to share with. For Raf's sake, for your family's sake, for _your_ sake, don't. You'll be protecting everyone on base."

Some of the troublemakers stirred and muttered. Lennox' eyes hardened. "Need some encouragement? Take a good long look around you. Look at the people that this could hurt directly, and look at everyone else who could be hurt or killed protecting them, or taken hostage in an attempt to trade for them. Remember what happened last Christmas Eve over energon, and think about that. Worse could happen over this. And if you do open your mouths, and someone does get hurt as a result, start running and don't even bother looking over your shoulder. Because I _will_ be right behind you, and God Almighty help you when I get my hands on you!"

There was another mutter, but it was very small and shy and short-lived. Lennox smiled with his mouth only, and added, "And when I get done, if there's anything left, the government will try you for treason. You'll spend the greatest part of your adult life in prison, and be old and wrinkly when you get out."

Silence followed that announcement. Lennox was only a clear and present, if terrifying, danger. Old and wrinkly was the true threat, at least to the human teenagers.

Ironhide reinforced that idea with a low, menacing engine rumble, and a stream of his patented Glyphs of Terror. If any of the bots had the idea that Raf's situation could be prank bait, that file got deleted, and the trash folder emptied _right now_.

The humans present had already performed the wetware equivalent.

Mearing's contribution was a glare at all and sundry—her trademark "or else," which no one from _any_ planet wished to have defined.

And whatever the content of the short string of glyphs Prime sent, any remaining resistance among the bots evaporated.

Lennox said, "Thank you for your time, and for your patience. If any of you need to discuss this with me, I am at your service, though it may take me some time to schedule a meeting with you. I ask for your continued patience in that matter, as I wish all of us to be comfortable with the road we must make. Are there any questions?"

As was usual in such assemblies, everyone looked around, but no one could form a question quite yet. That would take time and thought. Both Lennox and Parker expected to be quite busy answering them once they appeared; Lennox asked Dr. Boggs to be prepared as well.

Fortunately, they, and all those under his command, would have time to think it through—no one else was in such dire straits that a decision was immediately necessary.

Lennox dismissed the assembly, and there was the usual vox humana...and vox Cybertronia...as the crowd got to their feet and began to move toward the large bay door, which creaked ponderously as the Big Twins opened it. That was soon followed by revving engines, and the squeak and clatter of dozens of folding chairs being taken up and put away. The cafeteria became a center of activity, as those who were not going back to their quarters to eat lined up to get their evening meal there.

Once the assembly ended, the humans filed down the catwalk stairs to the floor of the commons.

Raf was immediately surrounded by his friends. Miko grabbed him and held him tight, crying and speaking Japanese, with the word _"baka"_ figuring prominently. Raf had watched enough anime to know what that meant, and was disinclined to argue with her.

Bulkhead transformed into his large APC mode. "Anyone who's going up to Excellion, hop in."

That included all of the Figueroas, and the teenagers crowded in as well. He would ferry them past anyone who might be watching the base, and let them out within Excellion's flight deck. The younglings fell into line behind him.

The humans left the hangar in families and other small groups—mostly silent, because they couldn't talk about what they wanted to say until they got home.

The bots and S14 took over the duties of guarding the base. For one thing, as Annika had told Mearing, they already knew that Raf was all right. For another, while the idea of transitioning from human to bot struck most of the Cybertronians as a little strange, the idea of a reformat to avoid deactivation was nothing new. Their reaction was relief on behalf of the newest Pretender, not shock, confusion, or revulsion.

The command group gathered in Admin, on the other side of the catwalk. Diarwen joined Optimus. Once the last of the little kids had been claimed by their parents, Sarah came over to Lennox with their girls.

Mearing exclaimed over how big they had grown since the last time she had seen them.

Annabelle was just finishing pre-school, and would start kindergarten next fall. Amaranth's grade level varied by subject; technically she too would be a kindergartener but she was being allowed to proceed at her own academic pace. She was at high school level in mathematics, and could read on an eighth grade level but was not emotionally ready for eighth grade subject matter. On the other hand, it was not wise to stand between her and a science book, either.

Charlotte watched the two girls playing together, chasing each other around the OD's desk, and had to ask herself why saving this child—the product of recombinant DNA, including the splicing of animal genes into the human genome—was different from saving Raf. If Amaranth's circumstances got out, the hue and cry would be just as loud.

Of course, there were differences. Sam and NEST had discovered Amaranth as she was, not created her. Nor was the experimentation that had resulted in her birth anything that NEST intended to repeat.

Likewise, the President had given asylum to Jason Brierly, the Sidhe boy who had ended up on base, and classified everything about him to hide him from those who would exploit him. The difference in that case was that there had always been Sidhe in what became the United States, though most were undocumented, and in fact came from a time when documents were unneeded. While, with the exception of Lady Diarwen, the Seelie Court had returned to their homeland, the Unseelie had left any number of descendants among the Irish diaspora, and continued to leave their changelings to the present day, with no harm done to the country. (Though that cruel practice was something that would be stopped as a form of human trafficking for the harm it did the children involved, if Mearing had anything to say about it. Most of the returned human changelings had been confined in either jails or mental institutions, believed to be unsalvageably psychotic. If they hadn't been to start with, Mearing thought bleakly, either experience would make them so.)

Transition, on the other hand, changed the nature of humanity on an on-going basis, in ways those who were pioneers in the process could only begin to imagine. At some future date, there would be formerly human Pretenders everywhere. How would that help or harm human civilization, and how would those who chose, or were forced, to remain in human bodies adapt? No one could answer those questions. Not yet, maybe not ever.

Intentionally or not, NEST was going to provide a laboratory for human/Pretender interaction.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

As Silverbolt did not share the other bots' discomfort at having humans eat in his passenger areas—with all his laboratory and medical mods, he expected messes and had self-cleaning modifications to deal with them; as well, he habitually kept supplies of human food in his subspace—Mearing decided to head back as soon as the Aerialbots were ready to make the trip.

Once they were aboard, Simmons asked Silverbolt to convert his seat to lounge mode and stretched out.

"Do you want me to loosen your brace?" Mearing said.

"Might as well go ahead and take it off. I'm not going to be moving around any more than I can help."

She knelt to the task. "No one told you to follow Jazz all over the Cliff House."

"I wanted to see it.—Ouch."

"He turns into a car. You could have had him drive you around and show it to you."

"I know. Just hate to let it win."

And if that was not vintage Seymour Simmons, Charlotte thought, she did not know what might be. She managed the complicated brace as easily as she broke down her sidearm: which is to say, she could do it in her sleep.

Although without the brace Seymour could put very little weight on the leg without severe pain, while he was just resting on the lounge it was a great relief to be out of the straps.

After almost a year, his shattered hip and leg were still not completely healed, and might never be. The ortho guy was making noises about another reconstructive surgery. Simmons was thinking about it. He would like to be less dependent on the brace, but any surgery always carried the risk of losing instead of gaining ground. He didn't want to end up back in a wheelchair, though he wasn't inclined to bitch about that where Chip Chase might hear him. "Thanks."

Mearing took the seat next to him. "Silverbolt, could you dim my light, please?"

Silverbolt did so, and as Li stood in the galley perusing the list of food available, he asked her if the galley configuration was suitable.

She decided that she was too tired to do anything with a full galley anyway. "It's fine. Silverbolt, do you have any prepared meals subspaced?"

"Yes, a small selection."

"One of those each will be fine for Director Mearing and myself, as well as a packet of coffee. Do you have kosher meals?"

"Yes, chicken."

"Agent Simmons likes chicken. One of those for him, please. Thank you."

She started the coffee, then watched as the Aerialbot superheated the kitchen's small oven, and carefully vacuumed out any ash that might possibly remain of any previously prepared non-kosher food. Once the oven cooled to the proper temperature, the big jet unsubspaced the meal into the oven, all the while maintaining air speed, course heading, altitude, about half a conversation with his brothers, and contact with various control towers.

By the time the meals were ready, Li had prepared coffee. She served Simmons his meal, returned to get Mearing's, then her own. She liked cream in her coffee, so she stepped outside the galley to add the cream to her cup. That completely separated her dairy product from the area in which meat dishes were prepared; that separation was the gears and levers of keeping a kosher kitchen.

But aboard Silverbolt, everything would be recycled. There was no need to worry about which plates and silverware were reserved for meat, and which for dairy.

Dinner accomplished, the humans dug in happily. It had been a while since lunch.

Simmons acknowledged the elephant in the room. "Have you two thought about whether you want to transition when the time comes?"

Li said immediately, "I would. I'm in no hurry to join my ancestors, and I like life."

Mearing said, "I...don't know yet. I need to think about it. Annika says she's content with having transitioned. What do you think, Seymour?"

"I don't know either. I wish I could talk to the rabbi about it."

Li observed, "The answer you got would probably depend on which rabbi you talked to."

"This is true. Oy! I'm too tired to decide anything tonight. When do we have to have these papers back?"

"There's no set date, but I wouldn't want anyone to have to decide for us. It's worse than deciding whether to pull the plug, in some ways."

"A little closer to playing God, I guess. If you pull the plug and it isn't someone's time, maybe they can live without the machines after all, hmm? But this, if you decide wrong and being a Pretender isn't what they wanted, then you both gotta live with it."

"Exactly."

"We'll figure it out this weekend when we have time to sit down and think," he said.

Mearing sighed. "Yes, we will."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The next morning, Raf came out of recharge in a pile near one corner of Excellion's flight deck. The pile's other components were Jack, who was just waking up, and Shad, Miko, and Junior Epps, who were still sound asleep.

The fiesta had gone on far into the night, and Raf suspected that more than one bottle of tequila had made the rounds among the adults, because none of them were around. When he and his human cohort quit for the night, Excellion had erected privacy screens around them, and extruded soft mats for them to sleep on.

On the other side of the flight deck, the Aerialbots sat in a circle in root mode, their attention fastened on a television set. Raf could barely hear it, so he knew the volume was set too low to disturb sleeping humans.

Excellion's exterior door opened, and Raf's Uncle Jorge entered. Raf got up, considered reconfiguring his armor for a "change" of clothes, dismissed the notion, and met Fig at the door.

_Tio Jorge _looked a little the worse for wear, but the tranquilizer he'd been given yesterday morning had made it very unwise for him to indulge too much last night. Therefore, he had made it out of bed hours before his fellow revellers were likely to do so.

Fig said, "How you doin', _hijo_?" and hugged Raf.

"I'm okay. That was some party."

Fig chuckled. "I'd say so. Even Lennox unbent a little."

Raf's browplates crinkled. "How could you tell?"

"When he came back from dancing the limbo with his little girls, he grabbed his wife, and planted one on her that just about combusted."

"I didn't see that," Raf said.

"Good. Then I don't have to explain it to you. Excellion," Fig added, raising his voice slightly, "where could we sit and have a cup of coffee?"

The cityformer helpfully lit up a row of markers to lead them through the corridors, and said, "If you wish to see it, a clip of Colonel and Mrs. Lennox was recorded last night."

Fig laughed and clutched his head. "That's all right, but thank you."

The lights led uncle and nephew to a sitting area overlooking Excellion's main hatch, as well as the entrance to the Cliff House. Presently, a blue and gold minibot came in with a coffee cup and a thermal carafe. "See if it tastes good. I followed the directions, but I don't know what coffee is supposed to taste like to a human."

Fig sipped, and nodded. _"Gracias. Muy bien."_ He usually made his own brew stronger than small deities, but after the last couple of days, any hot coffee was good coffee.

The minibot smiled. She sent her ID string to Raf, and showed him how to send his in return, though he really wouldn't have one until he talked to Jazz again. She sent a reassuring "it's OK" glyph, and excused herself.

Fig asked, "How are you doing this morning?"

"OK. Still—I'm not sure how to describe it. I'm, I'm..." the boy, mechling, Jorge corrected himself, fell silent, and stared at nothing for a moment. "I guess what my science teacher used to say is true. I'm not sure which way is up yet."

Fig smiled. If that was all! "Jolt said that happens after a reformat, and it can last as long as two weeks."

"It feels weird."

"You'll settle in, the more you learn how everything works." Fig heaved a sigh. "Raf—I'm sorry you saw me lose it yesterday morning. Sorry I lost it, if it comes to that. If it hadn't been for you, I'd have ended up in the stockade at Nellis at best. At worst, in the pen for the rest of my life."

Raf's face sobered, and he grasped both his uncle's forearms, then saw him wince, and hastily adjusted his grip in the direction of "a lot lighter." "Nobody blames you, _Tio Jorge_. Nobody, and me least of all. But promise me you won't do anything to Sally that puts you in jail. She isn't worth it. And I'm not sure I could hold you back twice."

Fig gave a lopsided grin, and nudged the tip of Raf's tail with his boot. "That tail's cheating."

"There were rules?"

Both of them laughed and Fig threw his arm around the mechling's shoulders, careful of the sharp pointy bits.

For the first time, Raf started to get the feeling that it really was going to be all right. That days would keep passing; that somehow, out of all of this, there would come a new normal. It would not be the old normal, but that might be okay after all.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Who the hell is that?" said Jorge Figueroa.

He sat in the office of the Director of Security for Mission City hospital, the Director and a Clark County detective named Shannon Martin beside him, and hospital counsel lurking nearby. All four were watching the security-cam films taken of the corridor that lead to the room from which Raf had jumped.

A very young blonde woman, girl, had just flickered into that hallway. The pictures were taken at two-second intervals; the last one in which she appeared showed her turning toward Raf's door. The subsequent frames did not show her continuing along the hall.

The Director scowled and tapped some keys; another monitor on his desk changed screens to display a spreadsheet. "I don't see anyone logged into that room as a visitor, although someone apparently asked for information about Mr. Esquivel at main entrance reception a few minutes before she arrived. The two rooms beyond Mr. Esquivel's were in 'No Visitor' status at the time, so she can't have slipped into one of them. They had to be opened with hospital ID."

Raf's "death" would normally have received only a cursory investigation; it occurred while he was under a doctor's care as suicidal, while he was hospitalized. He was known to be alone when he jumped, as no one had accompanied him through the door that led to the roof. NCIS had determined that his first wounds were in fact self-inflicted, and the matter had rested there.

But Fig, knowing what he knew about Sally Vanderpool, had chosen to kick up a stink about who had been in Raf's room the night he jumped. The hospital had dealt with many grieving parents, and found nothing unusual in this request.

They might also have been dodging a lawsuit bullet, hence the presence of counsel. That issue was presently the elephant in the room, at least from the hospital employees' POV; they had no idea filing a wrongful death suit was the farthest thing from Fig's "to-do" list it was possible to be and still stay on Earth, and he wasn't enlightening them.

The Director tapped some more keys. "The woman who was running the main front desk at that time is a volunteer, and she's here right now. Let's print off a copy of the best shot of this one, and see if she recognizes the blonde girl."

Detective Martin said, "That'll sit better with the DA if I do it, and probably if I do it at the station. Can you cull some likely impostors from other security cams? That way, if she identifies one out of a group..."

"Sure," said the Director. He picked up the receiver with one hand, poked at the phone with the other, and issued orders to a subordinate.

"Also," Detective Martin said, "you said that her desk accessed information about Mr. Esquivel. What information, precisely?"

The Director caused his screen to change multiple times. "Seems as if she looked up his name, but that's all. The screen locked down after that, which means it was idle for two minutes." He frowned. "That's contradictory to hospital policy. She should have logged the inquiry, and there should be a record of the visitor's ID."

"So," Fig said, "your agent is responsible for an unauthorized person's access to my nephew?"

"Not proven, but highly likely," said hospital counsel. "She'll be dismissed for breaching policy."

"Will you prosecute her?" said Fig, turning his eyes toward the detective.

Shannon Martin said, "If a lot of things hang together just right, she's an accessory before the fact. I'll have to look into her, see what kind of person she's been before this. I'll report her contribution to the DA, but I can't be sure he'll find anything in it to prosecute. He will certainly call her as a witness, however, and by the time he gets done with her, she'll know she did something wrong."

"Oh, she'll know that today," said the Director.

Detective Martin said, "I fully understand that you may want her off your staff, but would you please just suspend her until I can get her to ID that photo, if she can?"

"That won't be a problem, Detective Martin. Sergeant, I am very glad you brought this matter to our attention."

The detective smiled the way a shark might at the smell of blood in the water. "Did you find the boy's phone?"

"Yes. It was recovered when he fell, and logged in as patient property at that time."

"All right. I'll need it. We can place her at the scene, and if we're lucky, Sergeant, your nephew recorded anything she had to say."

Suddenly, Fig felt better than he had since he found Raf lying in his own blood in the bathtub. "Thank you, Detective," he said, and rose. "I'm bowing out now. It's enough that you're looking into this. I'll wish you well with it." He shook her hand, and turned to the Director. "Thank you. This wouldn't have been possible without your help."

Counsel said only, "Thank you, Sergeant, for helping us to get rid of an incompetent volunteer."

Fig nodded to him, and left. With any luck he would never have to come near this place and its bad memories again.

End Part Twenty-Eight


	29. Chapter 29

Part Twenty-Nine

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Maria drew in a deep breath, ignored the raised voices behind the door, knocked at it. The voices stopped and she opened the door.

The Vanderpools were surrounded by evidence of their wealth and standing face-to-face with one another. From the looks on their faces, they were two seconds away from coming to blows.

Maria gave a mental shrug. Not her circus, not her monkeys.

Then _Senor _Vanderpool flicked his eyes from and back to his wife, and said, "What is it, Maria?"

"_Senor_ Vanderpool, it is the police. They have come to see Miss Sally."

Vanderpool gave birth to a burst of profanity, but _Senora_ Vanderpool only said, "Please show them into the blue parlor, Maria. I'll get Sally, Marcus, and then I'll phone Jason. He can earn some of that massive retainer we pay him. You go to the police in a few minutes." Her voice hardened. "Use that time to get hold of yourself. In a pissing contest, they will make sure you lose to them."

None of that was Maria's circus either, except for the part about showing the police into the living room. So she stifled a laugh and did so, and was glad to get back to her kitchen.

Once there, she pulled out her cell phone, and registered with an employment agency. Not her circus, not her monkeys, and she had no intention of staying to work in a house where the police found their interests lay.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Marcus Vanderpool strode into the blue parlor in his usual thundering temper, and stopped short. "Steve?" he said, curtly. "What's all this?"

The only person out of uniform among the three visitors, one man and two women, stood and grimaced. He was a Clark County assistant district attorney, and clearly uncomfortable. He squared his shoulders and said, "I'm afraid it's about Sally, Marcus. I'd advise you to invoke her right to have counsel present before she answers any questions. That will have to happen at the station, unfortunately."

"Jason LeGrand is on his way," Vanderpool said. "What is she being charged with?"

"A felony. Incitement to suicide."

"A felony! How can a thirteen-year-old—"

"We'll talk about it at the station, Marcus."

Vanderpool summoned up his extra-special glower, but it had no effect.

And at that moment Sally and her mother entered the room. The Mission City PD detective and the matron rose to their feet, and Martin said, "Sarah Eugenia DeGugliana Vanderpool?"

"Yes," said Sally, in a very small voice.

The detective said, "We'd like you to come with us. We have some questions for you regarding your interaction with Rafael Esquivel when he was hospitalized. These are your Miranda rights." She read them, and asked, "Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?"

Sally burst into tears. After a few good wails, she peeked at the detective, to see if the tears were working. They weren't, but her parents, who rarely showed any emotion, looked thunderstruck. Sally was quite abruptly terrified, and her tears became genuine.

Ten minutes later, Jazz helpfully unlocked Raf's phone for the Mission City cops, who found that a recording of Sally's last conversation with Raf had indeed been made.

Ten minutes after Sally's arrival at the station, one of the tech wizards knocked on the door of the interrogation room which held the girl, her parents, their lawyer, Steven Edwards in his role as prosecutor, and the detective, along with her partner. Those last three came out of the room to listen to Raf's recording of Sally's taunts, and Sally's life as a pageant queen ended forever.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Jazz let Fig out in front of his house. The Ranger had stopped twice on the way home, once to buy roses and once to buy chocolate, the traditional offerings of a contrite husband. Jazz wished him luck, and as the silver Solstice drove back to the Admin building and his own mate, Fig walked up to the front door and opened it a crack. "Stefania?"

Maybe it was the roses, maybe the deluxe size chocolates, more likely the puppy-dog eyes, but Stefania let him in. "What's all this?"

"I want to apologize for scaring you yesterday. I was a complete jackass and I'm so sorry."

_"Ay,_ Jorge, what am I to do with you? Come in, this is your home, and let me put those in some water."

Jorge smiled, relief prominent, and followed her into the kitchen. "Where are the kids?"

"Pedrito is taking a nap, and the rest are over at the Eppses. Did you apologize to Raf? He was the one who had to tackle you!"

"_Si. _I did. _Mi corazon_," said the contrite husband_,_ "Will could tell you that anyone can go kill-crazy in combat. It's a side of myself that I never wanted you or the children to see. When I heard that Sally Vanderpool came to Raf, after what she did to him, and deliberately goaded him into jumping—in that moment, to me, she was a mad dog. To protect my family I needed to put her down." Jorge exhaled heavily. "But the right thing on the battlefield is the wrong thing here at home. I can't tell you how sorry I am that you and Raf had to deal with that."

Stefania put the roses into her grandmother's vase and placed it safely out of the reach of little hands. When she turned back, she simply looked at Jorge long enough to make him nervous, and then said, "It isn't possible to turn off the person that you had to become to survive over there, Jorge. We send our kids to school thinking that they will be safe around other children, but maybe, in this day and age, that's a naive assumption. I'm not sure what to do if they have to attend school with a little snake like that. Yours was an extreme situation, but I don't blame you for having an extreme reaction. _Te amo, mi Jorge. Siempre te querré."_

He held her close and stroked her hair. "I love you too, Stefania. Every day I try to be worthy of you, and I thank God for your patience when I fall short."

Stefania leaned out of his embrace just far enough to put her hands on his shoulders and make eye contact. "You are only a man, Jorge, and as such, you will make mistakes. But I never forget that you are _my_ man, and you always will be. You should not forget that either."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The next evening, Diarwen waited for the sun to set, and went for a walk in the cool dusk air. Optimus was at the temple with Burnout and expected to be there all evening, receiving a download of the next chapter of the Covenant of Primus, as well as associated writings and memory files that had been passed from priest to priest since the original Primes had left Cybertron. This passing of oathbound knowledge was not to be performed in the presence of anyone who had not mastered the previous teachings.

Burnout had three volumes more than Optimus had been given at the time of the Fall. Unless somewhere a priest still lived who had been taught the later volumes, or unless an actual copy of the Covenant existed, everything after that would remain lost to them, until Gaia matured enough for the Original Primes to unlock that part of her memories.

Because it was oathbound knowledge, though, Diarwen could not in honor be present even had she been invited, which she had not. She made no protest over that, instead pacing the quiet sidewalks of base housing, and watching the stars come out.

She had been in this world long enough that the constellations had changed slightly since she arrived. Cassiopeia needed a facelift.

She mused as she went. This was yet another military camp, distinguished only by the foundations under what had once been and would again be tents. It had no picket line for horses, that was true, but it did have a motorpool. She smiled, wondering how Sarah Lennox, Stefania Figueroa, Mikaela Banes, or Monique Epps would react to being classed as "camp followers."

The small animals of the dark made their presence known to Diarwen. She gently redirected scorpions back out into the desert, and felt the land relax around her. Diarwen was very aware of that, for the energy of the land affected her own magic. As her safe harbor after Chicago, as the place where her relationship with Optimus had begun, this base would always be one of the places that, to her, defined "home."

The sorrow and upheaval of Raf's transition were still present in the memories of those living on this land, and thus in the land itself. The humans would be back to normal, the memory accommodated, in a week or so; the Cybertronians had been upset by Raf's despair and the family's suffering, but they had viewed his transition as a reformat, which was nothing new to them. It was the humans the land took its cue from, which made a kind of sense, Diarwen realized; they were native life. The land was, however, was much slower to process that kind of input. The memory of Raf's "death" and "resurrection" would linger here a while, for those like her who were attuned to the land.

It really was a pity Betony, Will Lennox' sister, had no security clearance to speak of. Diarwen would enjoy knowing her battle-sister's reading of the land; Bethany's link was to Earth, where Diarwen's was to Fire.

The lights were on at the Epps house, and there were several people gathered on the porch. She could hear the kids playing in the back yard.

The Lennoxes were on the porch with the Eppses, Will's cut-glass decanter of real Irish whiskey keeping them all company. While Diarwen knew that Will and Bobby were close friends, that friendship dated from a time when they had been much closer in rank. Since then, Lennox' career had hitched itself to the meteor that was the Cybertronian Civil War and he had risen as high as possible without an act of Congress. Now, military protocol kept him apart from Epps, except for infrequent "team building" events.

And, of course, invasions of Chicago.

She wondered what had brought them to what seemed to be a social occasion.

She acknowledged them, but meant to respect their privacy. Will nodded to Bobby, however, and he called, "Diarwen! Come on up!"

Since moving to Mission City, Diarwen had spent more time with Will than she had been able to since he had been at college. She didn't hesitate to join them now.

She perched on the railing, between the swing where Bobby and Mo were seated, and the chairs holding Will and Sarah.

Diarwen greeted them all, which involved three hugs and a handshake, and said, "You have me at a disadvantage, as I have arrived late to the feast."

"We're discussing our choices regarding transition. You have a perspective that we lack when it comes to living for millennia," Sarah said.

"That is so," Diarwen said, and nodded a thank-you to Will for a glass of from that decanter. "Are we safe to discuss things here?"

Will smiled tightly at his sister-by-choice. "Too dark to read lips, and even if someone is up on Buzzard Rock looking down at us, I asked Sara to carry one of Prowl's small privacy screens in her purse. Effectively, we're more indoors than we would be indoors."

"I see. There is no one on Buzzard Rock, by the way.—I suppose the first thing I will have to tell you is that if you transition, you will outlive your children and their children."

The four faces around her had not been wreathed in smiles before she arrived, but now they set themselves in solemnity. Not one of the parents before her had thought of that.

"Should you transition, you will have to resign yourselves to making the acquaintance of your great-grandchildren and further descendants as a friend, not a relation."

Sara Lennox stirred slightly. "That would be very hard."

The Sidhe smiled at her. "Not so hard as you may think. When I first arrived in the Americas, I moved west about once each generation, and it was then as simple as buying a horse and riding off. But I also let a generation pass, and returned to places where I had outlived close friends, to befriend their grandchildren and great-grandchildren." Diarwen's smile deepened; she kept to herself that she had sometimes met the soul of a friend in that friend's descendant. "It is not as if you will have to be alone, but you will have to act from the understanding that you are always in disguise, so to speak.

"It's a lot harder to fall off the grid now than it was in the 1800s," Will pointed out. "I think old great-great-great-grandpappy might have to become a family secret."

"I agree that this is true. You may also find that the world alters around you very quickly, and I wish you good fortune keeping up with all those changes!"

Will laughed. "Maybe we should send you back to college again. You got your last degree in what, 1978?"

"Four years after I returned from Vietnam—yes, Will, it would have been 1978. It does not seem like thirty-four years."

"I was just a baby, and Betony wasn't even born yet."

"William. I believe that we have established that I am old. I see no further reason to discuss it."

That made them all laugh, which Diarwen had intended. She smiled. "The most positive thing I feel will come from having more of you transition is that the thread of living memory will be extended. Scot Glasco remembers what life was like before the second world war, and now, because he has transitioned, that way of life will be a living memory among humans for several thousand of your years."

Bobby Epps smiled. "Can't say that that's a bad thing. I sure do like me some Easy Rawlins, and his stories are all in that time. It really was a different world."

Diarwen, who had read one or two of Walter Moseley's novels, smiled back. "It was that. Every generation, though, lives in a different world. I was governess to the children of President Cleveland from the mid-eighteen eighties through most of the eighteen-nineties, as some of you may know, and I remember the Washington of those days, the life led by a retainer in the White House of the Victorian era. I remember the great mansions with their parties, the dresses that sparkled in the glow of lantern and candlelight, and the more modest homes of the staff and their families. I remember how the fashions of the day draped around me. How the food tasted, how the city smelled. The noise of horses and carriages in the streets, the whistle and hiss of steam trains. That world is gone now. If I walk down one of those streets that I remember so well, it does not seem to be in the same city, even on the same planet."

"Tell us some more of what you remember," Sara said.

A soft and gentle smile crossed the Sidhe's face. "I remember nineteen-twenties Chicago. I had a dear friend there, you see, from the Great War through the twenties and thirties. He too has passed beyond the veil, and this world is the poorer for it. I could take you to a basement where our favorite speakeasy was located, but all you would see there now is merchandise warehoused by the store above. You might find it hard to believe that Chicago's academic world once gathered in that space to drink gin and listen to some of the greatest jazz ever played. It was an era when everything was new, science could do anything, and progress would never fail us. We had just fought the war to end all wars. And then the stock market crashed, and Prohibition ended, and that world changed completely.

"I remember Dublin, before I left it for this new continent. That was many years after I was left the only Sidhe in Ireland; before that happened, the languages had not diverged so far that humans and Sidhe could not make ourselves understood to one another. Dublin then was the largest city in Ireland, and second in size only to London in the British Empire. Oh, my friends, the life in that city! Singers and fiddlers on every corner, if not in every home; alehouses and pubs were numerous, and served as the center of the city's culture, for Dublin was a university city. If I love any city of any time, it is that Dublin."

She paused for a drink, and ached for her harp; oh to sing of a Dublin long vanished, in a cool clear evening far, far from that place of her heart.

"In the Renaissance, things changed relatively quickly. Not 'fast' as you would think of it, for a galloping horse or a ship whose sails were filled with wind still supplied the fastest means of communication available. For those of my kind the changes new thought set loose upon the world were not altogether positive; iron gave way to steel, but is of course its main component, and steel began to be used more widely than ever before. Magic had to be hidden; that, perhaps, was hardest of all. Consider how your lives might change if the demonstration of affection between persons, even in private, were suddenly forbidden. It was much like that for us.

"And the world changed irrevocably during that time. Science, medicine, some sense of the science of sanitation: all of that was new thought. Cities spread everywhere, and there was so much less of the wild country I loved left to Europe that I took ship in search of it.

"When I arrived in this country, it was still wild everywhere. Bears and cougars were a constant danger to humans in all but the largest cities. Wolves were less so; I have never understood the need the settlers felt to exterminate them. And the native people were less a danger to the Europeans than the other way around.

"The west in the eighteen hundreds...do you know why cowboys carried guns?"

"Because Hollywood decreed it," Lennox said, dryly.

"No, there was a real need for them, and it was not other humans, most of the time. Wolf and cougar could be warned off with a shot, rattlesnakes dispatched without danger, though a pistol against a bear was a losing proposition. But not even those animals were cause of the need to go armed: cowboys carried guns because their horses were never fully tamed. If your horse threw you, and your foot slipped through the stirrup, you would be dragged to death unless you shot the horse."

Sara, who had owned and loved horses, shook her head.

"Did you work as a cowhand?" Epps said.

"No. That work was not available to women of the time, though I am sure there were a few who performed it from within men's clothing. When I first went west it was a generation or two earlier, with a group of pioneers, and I traveled only in small increments. By that time I had learned to use a gun, but crossing the wilderness was a dangerous trek for a lone woman."

"What was that like? The pioneering, I mean?" Monique said, passing sandwiches around.

"Hot, dusty"—Diarwen wet her throat, and Lennox refilled her glass—"and very, very tiring. We did not ride inside the wagons but walked with the mules, holding a lead rein, or beside the oxen, driving them. Everyone who could walk did so. Only the ill, the old, or the very young were carried in the wagons."

"It must have been very slow," Sara said.

"Ten miles on a good day, five on a bad one. If the weather was really awful, no progress at all, for fear of miring in the mud. You have no idea how glorious it is to drive a tireless horse, who might slow only a little as you ask it to breast a hill."

They all laughed, as Diarwen had intended they should.

"I remember wartime Europe. In the Second World War I thought your world would end; the first was bad enough, but the second...I had never seen destruction on such a scale, nor to the degree of obliteration that was practiced. Nor had I seen such...organized inhumanity. My dear Lady Brigit, the camps...I could never have imagined that such a blight upon the Earth might exist. Not even during the Burning Times could I have imagined a place built to kill thousands, to kill them like cattle. Before that, you see, death, even mass murder, came at the hands of warriors with swords or guns. They saw and even touched their victims. But not in the camps. There death was summoned beyond sight of any but the dying.

"Never in all my years had human beings possessed the ability to rain such devastation down upon their fellows. First the London Blitz, then the firebombing of Dresden. The many bomber runs between. It seemed that all the world would burn before that war ended.

"That war was the first time that death was impersonal, you see. Men could fly above one another's cities and kill the earthbound thousands below them, never seeing the faces of the dying, never hearing a mother's wail as her child was forever lost to her; never knowing what they wrought.

"And all of that, _all _of that, was before Einstein and Oppenheimer ushered in yet another age, this one with even more death even more distant."

Diarwen looked at the rapt faces around her. "'Tis war and its alterations that sound the bell of change to me, but that is because I am a warrior and have always been. You will mark it differently if that is not your path. To be a long-lived creature among generations of humans is to be a sojourner in a thousand different worlds, one constantly fading into the next.

"Modern humans have little concept of how quickly mainstream society changes...perhaps religious communities such as the Amish do. Perhaps rain forest tribes who have had little contact with the outside world have it."

She fell silent, and the silence fit comfortably into the long, soft twilight.

"So that's what we'll be opting for," Monique said eventually, tasting the thought as she spoke it. "A long journey through a landscape that changes slowly, occasionally swiftly, and that landscape will include our friends."

"Yes," Diarwen said. "In the midst of your own permanency, others' briefness will have to be encompassed."

Lennox knocked back his own _uiske_, and asked, "In your own mind, is the journey worth the losses?"

"Many, many times over, brother," Diarwen said. "Loss pains for too long a time, but it does fade, finally, and then you are left with the good memories. And those," she said, looking deep into her _uiske _for the truth within it, "those are more than compensation. They are soul-warmth against a long icy winter of loss and change."

Mo Epps said, "I have another question, though it's personal, so please don't feel obliged to answer. But is there...anything we should know...about bi-species marriages?"

The non-Cybertronian half of a bi-species not-quite-marriage said, "Accommodations are required. The Pretender half of the couple, in alt mode, will be perfectly able. However, we wet creatures are not physically compatible with the forms of intimacy that Cybertronians generally prefer. If the human partner is capable of learning energy work, that will ensure pleasure for both members of the couple. Also, I have heard Chip make a salacious remark concerning the possibilities involved with the use of one of those DNI headsets—I believe that is what he called it?"

Bobby said, "Yes, it stands for Direct Neural Interface. Lets us interact with computers directly, the same way the Cybertronians do...oh,_ snap!_" he said, as the proverbial lightbulb came on over his head.

Will said, "Yeah...umm, once I happened to walk in on Hide and Chromia 'crossing wires' if you get my drift...that's definitely one of the things they do."

"Yes, it is," Diarwen agreed. "What, precisely, did you witness?"

Lennox' ears turned red, and his wife repressed a snort. "Uh...there was a cable between them, and..."

"Oh. That is...they call it 'plug and play' in English, a term I believe they acquired from human computer technology. That is not as intimate as 'spark sex,' in which a bonded pair open their chestplates to one another that their sparks may be in extremely close physical proximity, if not actually touching. That, unfortunately, will be beyond the capability of a mixed pair; many Cybertronians never experience it if they do not have a bondmate."

Will reached for Sara's hand, and said to her, "So if one of us transitions, the other one has to. Just a head's-up."

"Is that supposed to make me blush?" Sara said tartly, if with a grin. "Try again."

Will laughed, along with everyone else. "Since that DNI cap is the piece of equipment Pierpoint uses to download a human into a Pretender frame, I'm not so sure its use would actually be safe. Of course, we're talking about Chip Chase here, so 'safe' might not have been at the top of his priority list. If he and Kaela have been experimenting with that..."

"TMI," Epps agreed, with a snort.

Diarwen shared a grin with them both. "I am sure that in the case of a bi-species relationship our respective medical researchers can design a safe way to use the DNI. That would give an interspecies pair the closest possible experience of spark-sex."

"Then, it's possible for one of us and a Cybertronian...?" said Sara.

"Yes. With an open heart and an open mind, most things are. It would likely be much easier for a couple whose love existed before they experienced lust for one another." She smiled. "There is also 'field play,' which can be engaged in across a room if one's energy-management technique is up to the challenge; it is something a mixed pair might very well enjoy together. The technique is very pleasurable for both partners."

"TMI" bounced around four heads, but dissipated safely in the cooling night air. Then, after consultation with and a draft of his beer, Bobby said, "I love Mo, and I'd do anything it took to make her happy. And at the end of the day, what matters to me is that my family needs me, especially D'andre. I'd like to be able to take care of him for the rest of his life. As it is, I worry about what's going to happen to him when Mo and I get old."

Sarah said, "Yes, if there's any way I could stay here for my daughters, I'd do it. What terrifies me is having to make that decision for them. Annabelle definitely isn't mature enough even to think about making a decision like that. I think Amaranth might be, but neither of them has started kindergarten yet."

Mo said thoughtfully, "I know, but if Raf is any indication, they'd be about the same level of development as sparklings that they are as children. I have no idea how that works, but if they grew up as Pretenders, they wouldn't really know any difference, would they?"

Lennox said, "They'd wonder why their human playmates were growing up so much faster. As tiny babies, they develop at about the same rate as humans, but then it slows down. Normally, they stay sparklings about a vorn before they're ready for their youngling frame. That's a complete reformat. Then they stay younglings for at least another vorn and as much as ten to fifteen vorn before they're given their adult upgrades. That means as human parents of a transitioned child, we might live to see them become teenagers. We wouldn't see them become adults, unless we also transitioned."

Diarwen nodded. "Optimus has told me that he was a mechling for about a thousand of your years."

"A _thousand_ years," Mo said, stunned. "A millenium of babyhood."

"Teenagerhood, actually. A new sparkling is what we would think of as a baby for about two years. They remain sparklings, small children, for about a vorn—eighty years, give or take. Younglings—adolescents—ideally remain so until they have sufficiently matured in both frame and processor to support their adult upgrades. A minimal standard for 'mature' was applied during the war, and the adult transition was generally performed very soon in a mechling's life in the name of safety. Blue, for instance, tells me he had only about a tenth the time Optimus did, and his upgrade to adult framing was one of the last that took place during the war. But Optimus had the luxury of time."

"Are Sidhe kids for that long too?" Bobby asked.

Diarwen shook her head. "No. Our aging stops when we reach physical maturity; that happens in our late teens or early twenties."

Lennox raised a brow. "Stops. It _stops_."

"So far as our wise ones had ascertained by the time my people left Ireland for Tir nan Og, it does. We can be killed, poisoned or iron-poisoned, cursed to death, hacked into pieces. There are legends, one recounted by the writer Tolkien, that spirits grown too powerful for the Sidhe body that houses them escape directly to Summerland by burning that body to ash. That has not happened in my lifetime, nor in the lifetime of anyone I spoke with, nor that of anyone they spoke with. Perhaps my people in Tir nan Og have learned more since their return, but I have no way of knowing." She smiled. "So we do not age, but we are not, strictly speaking, immortal: we can be killed. A similar situation exists for Cybertronians. When they wear out a frame, which happens about once every fifteen to thirty thousand years, they exchange it for a new one in a process called a full reformat. They cycle through frames many times over a normal lifetime, until at some point the spark becomes too weakened by age to inhabit a new frame. Milestrina has shared with me that such is her situation; she has lived, she thinks, for hundreds of thousands of your years.

"But the only experience that the Cybertronians have had of such very old beings has been of those who have survived first enslavement by the Quintessons, and then the various periods of warfare which have swept over Cybertron throughout the ages. All of those survivors have been through terrible times, and that has taken a toll which reflects itself in a shortened lifespan. Ratchet tells me that his people do not know the true upper limit of their lifespans. Should someone be granted the great fortune to avoid such disasters and live a healthy life with the opportunity to keep their successive frames in good repair, it could be a million years or more."

"That's—amazing," Sarah said.

"Even to me," Diarwen said. "To put that into perspective, I have lived approximately 17,000 years."

"Seventeen _thousand _years. What's the takeaway?" Lennox said, holding hands with his wife and communing with his uiske.

Diarwen smiled at her battle-brother. "That the past is gone, the future uncertain, and all we have is the now."

"Fair enough," Will said.

"You are setting out on a very long journey. At the time of my birth, the last ice age was at its height; it continued for another 7000 years. Remember that a Cybertronian frame lasts at least 17,000 years, sometimes twice that long. You may not face a first reformat until you are older than I am now.

"Half a million years ago, older than the oldest known living Cybertronian, my ancestors first discovered the gates between the Sidhe realms such as Tir nan Og and the Underhill and your fair Earth. My ancestors found here several species of humans who were just developing the ability to speak. If you choose to transition you may live long enough to see evolution within your own kind."

"Whoa," said Epps. "Long life is long."

"From your present point of view, and even from my own, yes. But my professors told me the dinosaurs were killed off some 67 million years ago. So you see, all of us are very young in the eyes of Mother Earth. And all of us are ancient in the eyes of a mayfly; it is relative. Yet, life is life, and all of us live it one moment at a time."

Silence settled in around the darkening base, and the four humans sat with whatever questions Diarwen's information gave them, but no one asked them. She finished her _uiske_, and rose. "I thank you for your hospitality. If you have any questions, I am always at your service."

"Must you leave?" Sarah said. "Please stay. I don't often get to talk with you."

"Let me leave a note for Optimus," Diarwen said, smiling down to her, "and play my harp for a bit. I need some music; all that talk of Dublin, you see."

"Bring it back with you," Epps said. "I'll have the kids bring you some hot cocoa."

"Done," said Diarwen, and departed in search of her datapad, and her harp.

She returned with the latter shortly, and their discussion wandered on to other topics. The talk was accompanied by that warmth a harp may provide to a soul, human or Sidhe, against an icy winter of loss and change.

End Part Twenty-Nine


	30. Chapter 30

Part Thirty

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Raf's funeral was...the funeral of a child. A grief-sodden gathering of friends and relatives around a medically-sealed coffin.

Santiago Esquivel attended, and was a mess. Stefania did what she could to comfort the man. Jorge would not even look at him: had shaken his hand, but Stefania knew from the thinning of Jorge's mouth as he did so that it cost her husband.

That she was not crying might have been remarked upon, but all Stefania had to do to summon tears was remember the sight of Raf's body after he had left it, with its surgical wounds, its defibrillation burns, its terrible damage from the fall.

Fig, fortunately, was not required to cry; his face was set in stone.

Stefania sighed to herself. They would have to listen to Raf's school friends stumble and cry through their statements about him, to endure their grief as well as their own.

Since their own did not truly exist, they sat stone-faced through much of it, exactly as a family faced with this loss might.

The girls cried whenever someone else cried. Juan did his best to imitate his father, with tears occasionally falling.

Little Pedrito had been taken to play with the youngest Epps boy, who was considerably older than he, but Pedrito enjoyed guessing the rules to D'andre's games, and D'andre displayed what was for him an incredible amount of patience with Pedrito. Both children seemed to enjoy their interactions.

Diarwen had chosen to watch them, along with the other base children too young to be at a funeral home, with Miko's and Jack's help. All three knew Raf had survived.

Diarwen carefully did not think about her other reason for avoiding the wake, namely, that the parish priest would be there. If she thought about it, her prejudice would make her uncomfortable, and there had been more than enough discomfort over the last few days.

So, she was not at the funeral home, nor at the church for the funeral mass, nor at the cemetery where the last vestige of Raf's time as a human being was laid to rest beneath the sand.

When, finally, it was over, the hands shaken and the guests leaving, it was the Figueroas' job to take Santiago Esquivel to Las Vegas' airport.

Sunstreaker was driving. Fig sat in front, his shoulders rigid, while Santiago Esquivel wept inconsolably in the back. Stefania occasionally handed him a tissue, but said nothing.

The Figueroas watched him walk into the boarding area, and left the airport. Halfway back to Sunstreaker, Fig said violently, "Except having Raf, the only goddamned good thing about this whole mess is that I will never have to see that lousy _hijo de puta_ again."

"Never," said Stefania, and neither one ever gave Santiago Esquivel a second's thought thereafter unless Raf brought him up. They knew, and Raf knew, that Santiago's security rating was so low as to be in the negative numbers; no sane person would entrust him with the secret of the Pretenders.

Still, for all Santiago's shortcomings, Raf would need to grieve his absence all over again, along with the loss of his mother. The Figueroas could be there for him, and easily. They had already done much, much more.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Raf was not prepared for what he saw when his cousins and aunt and uncle stopped in to see him onboard Excellion after his "funeral." The girls were in tears. Juan's mouth was a straight bar, exactly like his father's; the severity of his expression deepened the bags under _Tio_ Jorge's eyes. _Tia_ Stefania looked stricken.

The colossal wrongness of Raf's solution sank in.

This was what pretending to bury him had done to his family. And, as Mearing had reminded him, he was only alive because he had beaten some astronomically long odds. By all rights, this should have been a real funeral.

People were still being very careful around him, treating him like fragile glass. No one would come out and say how badly he had hurt everyone. But it had been impossible to overlook the changes his new situation had created on the base. The relief on people's faces when they saw him was evidence of the pain he had caused, the pain he would have caused permanently if his attempts had succeeded.

Raf hung his head, and said, "I'm so sorry. I was selfish and I hurt everyone. I don't know how to start making it right."

Fig took Raf into his arms and said, "Raf, we love you. We always have, and we always will. I am okay, more than okay, with who you are now, but oh, how I wish with my whole heart you could have told us what was going on. We might have spared you all that suffering. That's the only thing I would change, Raf."

"I'm sorry. I was so ashamed. I felt like an idiot. I couldn't face having everyone know what a fool I'd been."

Stefania said, "Raf, it's all right to be a fool for love. That's just being mortal, and mortals are human or Cybertronian, and I'll bet any other species that exists. When you meet someone who seems like the right person, all common sense flies out the window. Sometimes it's right, sometimes it isn't, and we can't ever know how it's going to turn out. But, Raf, even if we've loved unwisely, we've _loved_, and that's never all bad. You don't need to feel shame for having the courage to love.

"Look at it this way. For a few weeks, probably for the only time in her life it will ever happen, Sally Vanderpool was loved. And she was too stupid to see it. You are not the one who should be ashamed. She is."

Raf wiped his eyes. "_Si_, _Tia_ Stefania. I feel no shame over her, only shame for the pain I caused you."

Stefania said, "Raf, that is because you are a good person. I tell you now that it was the hardest time any of us have ever lived through, hoping desperately that we would not lose you, and watching things get worse, and worse, and worse. All of us need Dr. Boggs' help to move past that. I am only glad that you are still with us as we get that help."

_Tio_ Jorge hugged him close for a moment, then held him out at arm's length. Both of them had wet optics. Jorge ignored that to say, simply, "Raf, I forgive you."

Then Tia Stefania did the same. Then Juan punched him in the arm and said, "_Baka_," shaking a fist that had gone numb before he grabbed Raf and hugged him.

Catalina reached her arms to him to be picked up, and Raf did so: much more easily than he could have two weeks ago.

Anita watched him warily, and when he turned to her and smiled, stuck her hands behind her back. Raf went to kneel in front of her. "It's still me, Nita. If you need help with your math homework, I will give it to you."

"But Raf," she said, edging back a little, "when you are being your other you, like the Pretenders, what do you look like?"

Raf could at this point keep the tail spikes and other exuberant manifestations of his armor to himself, and so set Catalina down and transformed into a smooth-skinned upright biped, with a tail. "This is me," he said to Anita's very wide eyes.

"Raf, you haven't got any pants on!" she said, shocked, and Catalina laughed.

Raf did too, and manifested pajama shorts in a blinding succession of purple, green, blue, black-and-yellow check, and pastel polka dots. He finished up in pink paisley.

Anita giggled.

Rafael Esquivel, Pretender, held out a hand to each of cousins; both took them. He was flooded with love from his entire family. If only he had been able to feel that before...before. Love had always surrounded him; at last, he knew that.

\- Sidhe Chronicles-

The day after Raf's funeral, the base felt very subdued. Even at three AM, a pall of sorrow hung over it.

Fred Pickert couldn't feel it, and wouldn't have cared if he could. He thanked Henrik, slammed the door of the car, and began to trudge down the four-lane road that led past the Mission City base. At three AM, no cars passed him.

A mixed crew always monitored the fence cams: Cybertronian frames could pick up spectra human bodies couldn't. This particular morning, Topspin and Roadbuster had drawn the short straws, and that meant Steeljaw had too. He was currently staying with Rodi and Bulkhead, and not entirely happy. Nor was Rodi, who hadn't known that Steelie recharged with Roadbuster. Steelie climbed up to share his berth quite happily, and totally refused even to entertain the notion that he might, this once, sleep on the floor.

Pickert would not know for some time how lucky he had been. Although perhaps he might have preferred a different word for what happened when First Aid sent, "Manpower to medbay stat!"

Bulkhead got up in the middle of the night, and so did Steelie, who thought that the best place _ever_ was right under anybody's peds. Add gravity to a half-awake bot and an unaccustomed and highly mobile obstacle, and the result was a painful fall.

Roadbuster and Topspin handed off to their human partners, and sped to med bay.

That left two of the six humans then on duty with four screens each to monitor instead of two. This meant glancing among them, as the screens were not situated so that a single person could take in all of them at a glance.

The only woman among them got up and took a step back, deliberately unfocusing so that she could see movement. Her male counterpart did not know that trick, and when it was explained to him did not believe it would work.

Inevitably, he was shifting his gaze between two screens when Pickert made a brief and ungraceful appearance on a third.

He didn't bother to wait for getting his breath back after falling from the fence, just scrambled beyond the lit perimeter. Though it was too dark for him to see the cameras, he knew approximately where they were.

He dove into a circle of fragrant sagebrush, and huddled down out of sight.

Pickert's watch said ten minutes to sentry. He got up and found a boulder to hide behind.

"What the heck's that?" said the man on monitor duty. Pickert's infrared "ghost" showed clearly through the sage, but dissipated; his trail disappeared entirely when he went behind the rock.

The sentry ran the tapes. "No visual confirmation."

"Coyote, maybe? They run a little hotter than we do," said the woman.

"Why was it standing on its hind legs, then?"

"Dunno. Sounds like you better send a sentry."

The man changed monitors, and watched a red dot superimposed on a map of the base. Then he triggered his radio.

The sentry sent was human.

Pickert was at Buzzard Rock by the time he arrived: out of range of sight, sound, and smell; that last was important, because Pickert began to enjoy a cigarette.

The soldier sent to check out the area Pickert had left reported back that nothing suspicious was now visible, and there was no infrared trail. The soldier on the monitor shrugged, logged the incident, and notified the next sentry to conduct a more thorough scan of the area than usual.

Pickert waited, watching from the height of Buzzard Rock's best perch as distance made the sentry smaller and smaller as she walked along the fence.

Some forty-five minutes after the sentry left, Diarwen appeared, and Pickert powered up his camera. She pulled her silver hair into a ponytail and began to perform her morning Sword Dance. Pickert got at least one shot which clearly demonstrated that her ear cartilage came to a definite point, though not one as pronounced as Spock's.

He became so involved with, in fact one with, his camera that he failed to note the approach of Optimus Prime, Raf, and the other members of Diarwen's Circle. He _did_ notice being seized by a Cybertronian hand and plucked from his vantage point like a rotten plum from a tree.

By that time the senior, but not the junior, students had arrived, Raf with them. This meant Jazz, Annika Whitt, whose first class this was, and Prowl.

Optimus set the unfortunate photographer on the ground, and Pickert chose badly. His gun seemed to come out of its holster in slow motion.

Raf did not hesitate. He tackled the man, and they rolled into the dirt.

Pickert was lucky Raf was in an adolescent frame, proportionately lighter than an adult mech. As a human, Raf had been five feet tall and weighed about one hundred pounds. Now he was closer to one fifty, and had configured his height to 5'10", still smaller than most of the other Pretenders but not short enough to attract attention when he was outdoors in root mode. At his full adult weight, somewhere between two and three hundred pounds, Raf probably would have injured Pickert very seriously if he had tackled him and rolled over him. As it was, Pickert went down and stayed that way; Raf was far too strong for him.

"Well!" said Annika, optics bright. "Who have we here?"

Prowl actually growled, which startled all of them considerably. ::It's that photographer. Optimus, shall I inform the Clark County Sheriff's Department?::

::Find out who he is first. If he is more than just a reporter, I want to know about it.::

Between the gun and the camera, Prowl scanned a full set of prints, and logged into the relevant databases. Pickert's good fortune held, as Prowl's search confirmed that he was exactly what he seemed to be—a nosy and foolish freelance photographer. A paparazzo, in other words.

Prowl facilitated Pickert's turnover to the local authorities and the man quickly found himself a guest of the Clark County Jail, rather than being taken into military custody under provisions of the Patriot Act.

As for his film? When Prowl asked the science division to develop it, they found that it had been ruined by a very brief exposure to high heat. The camera itself appeared untouched, until viewed under high magnification, when evidence of high heat was discovered there as well.

When Prowl requested information of everyone present at that incident regarding this phenomenon, it was Annika Whitt who simply smiled and replied, "Oops."

And Jazz who followed her with his optics when she left his mate's office.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

So little rain fell throughout so much of the year in Clark County that the smoking porch of the offices used by the county's district attorney and his many deputies was more often used for a parasol than an umbrella. It seemed always to be occupied by three or four persons, deputies, corrections officers, support staff; people washed in and out through it like a fifteen-minute tide.

When a newish land yacht pulled into the parking lot, one support person watched it pull into the "Official Visitors" lot, pulled at his cigarette, and watched a tall woman who might have been a fitness model on the weekends, when she wasn't busy filling up the cover of _Vogue_, climb out of it. Then he pitched the half-smoked butt into a receptacle, squared the Browning belt around his belly, and marched out into the lot, shoulders back and head high.

One of the two deputies smiled. "There he goes," he said, "the cock of the walk."

"Yep. Keepin' the parkin' lot safe for all humanity."

"Don't you know that's Kenny's way of flirtin'?"

"To go out and harass good-lookin' women when he's got no badge, no uniform, and no power to do so?"

"That's the one. He says it's gotten him a few dates."

The second deputy considered this, and said eventually, "Ewww. Still, I suppose if you don't swing at the pitch, you can't hit a home run."

"He says that too."

The second deputy considered both Kenny, waddling at high speed, and his target, whom Kenny had not yet reached. Then he shook his head and said, "Guy must wiffle a lot."

Across the parking lot, Kenny said, politely, "Ma'am, that space is reserved for official visitors."

The woman bent down to pull her briefcase out of the car, which hiked an already short skirt up a little farther, taking Kenny's blood pressure with it. "Thank you," she said, "but I am an official visitor." She stood to her full height and looked down at him.

Kenny had expected flutter or perhaps bravado. He considered himself an apex predator, but when their eyes met he understood suddenly that he was only a juvenile cobra who lived off frogs, and what stood before him was a well-seasoned and very hungry mongoose, a species which ate cobras. For breakfast.

"Ma'am," Kenny squeaked. "It was just—I just—"

"I see," she said, when he had spluttered to a miserable stop.

And Kenny knew that she did see, and to his everlasting shame, knew _what_ she saw. He was so abjectly grateful he nearly urinated when the next words out of her mouth were not a discussion of his many and manifold shortcomings, but only, "Excuse me, please."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

When the woman entered front doors neatly lettered "Offices of the Clark County District Attorney," every head in the reception area, male or female, swiveled to her.

She brushed her long red hair back with one hand, and bent to place her shoes in the X-ray bin, whereupon all the male heads tilted a bit. Her keys and briefcase followed; she didn't carry a purse.

She stepped through the scanner as if she did that every day of her life, picked up her things, and went to the reception desk.

"May I help you?"

"Agent Paulson, from Networked Elements, Supporters and Transformers. I have an eleven o'clock appointment with Deputy DA Edwards." She pulled the collar of her jacket around, revealing an ID card.

The receptionist glanced at the card, typed in the ID numbers, chose NEST from a drop-down menu, and pushed a button. The screen cleared, and she punched a console button. "Agent Paulson is here for DA Edwards," she said into her headset microphone.

The woman helped herself to a seat in the waiting area. Once seated, she did not fidget, and she did not make eye contact with anyone else in the waiting area. This was not for lack of trying by several of the "anyone else," some of whom made the fashion statement of bright orange jumpsuits and matching wrist and ankle manacles.

When the door to the secure elevator opened, and a burly fellow with a badge, a gun, and a visitor's pass in one hand stepped out, he said, "Agent Paulson?"

Agent Paulson rose from her seat in one smooth motion. Several Adam's apples bobbed up with her, then fell into the depths of disappointment. "Yes?"

"I have a visitor's pass for you, ma'am. Please place it where it will be visible at all times."

Paulson fastened it to the collar of her jacket, where it did not swing back and forth in front of her breasts but lay still just below her collarbone. The watchers in the room were, by and large, disappointed.

"This way, please." The burly fellow gestured toward his elevator, and they stepped inside. The air temperature in reception dropped by several degrees once the elevator door shut.

Three floors up, the elevator opened, and the burly fellow made a "this way" gesture, allowing Agent Paulson to precede him into a generic concrete hallway only thinly disguised by carpet, paint, and panelling.

They went down it, unaccompanied this time by stares. Reception nodded them through and the burly fellow knocked at door marked "S. Edwards, Esq. Deputy District Attorney, Clark County."

District Attorney Edwards stood when she walked in; an unremarkable attorney-ish looking person, thinning blond hair, suit and tie. The fellow in guest seating presented as a shaggy, neatly underdressed fellow with rampant hair and thick glasses.

"Agent Paulson?" said DA Edwards. He extended his hand.

Her handshake was cool and brief. "DA Edwards. I'm here to fill you in on protocols around that piece of evidence you hold."

"The cell phone, yes. Mr. Strang here is our cell-phone guru, so I asked him to sit in on the conversation."

"Mr. Strang," said Agent Paulson, and offered him her hand. Strang shook it as if one of them were made of porcelain, and he wasn't sure which.

"I don't know if Chief Deputy Jorgenson introduced himself?" Edwards said, with a gesture to the deputy who had escorted Paulson."

"No. How do you do, Deputy."

The deputy shook her hand, and seated himself before she did.

"Well, Agent Paulson, what can we do for NEST?" DA Edwards said.

"Mr. Edwards, we have no intention of screwing with your case against Sally Vanderpool."

DA Edwards's eyebrows took a jump up. Agent Paulson watched that happen with a certain air of detachment, and, calm as a frozen lake, continued. "But on the other hand, we have a vested interest in seeing that the phone currently in your chain of command does not leave it, and that it returns to us when you are finished with it. It contains technology which is used to ensure the safety of the families of NEST members, and could be dangerous in the wrong hands."

DA Edwards folded his hands on the desktop, which any of the subservient DAs knew meant that he was very angry. But he had danced this dance with federal agencies before, and he knew that he possessed no effective strategies at all to cope with them: they would lead and he had to follow. "We will ensure its custodial chain of command is unbroken, as we do for every piece of evidence in our lockers. Once we have this young woman adjudicated, we will return it."

The agent eyed him for a moment. "Mr. Edwards, in the last five years ninety-two cellphones held as evidence have become unaccounted for in your Evidence Room. You have a personal safe, and we ask you to keep it there."

Edwards turned red from the tops of his ears on down. "How did you come into possession of those pieces of information?"

"Yes," Strang said. "I'm interested in that too."

Paulson did not move or smile or even blink. "That's on a need-to-know basis, and your clearances are not high enough for me to tell you."

Edwards grasped at the fraying ends of his temper, and said, "So far as I am aware, I don't _have _a security clearance."

"That was rather my point."

A long silence ensued. Then Edwards breathed in, once, a very long and deep inhalation. "Very well. I will take personal possession of that phone and keep it in my safe. Anything else I can do, Agent Paulson?"

"Please be aware that a Transformer designated Prowl, who is Optimus Prime's' second-in-command on the Mission City base, as well as its provost marshal, knows where that phone is at all times. I was sent here today because it was taken from the evidence locker before data concerning its transfer was entered." The agent glanced at what looked like a very expensive wristwatch, then said, "It's back now. That's good. If it hadn't been, you'd have been surrounded by Transformers and human Special Agents very shortly if it were still on the premises. At that point we would have insisted that the phone be returned to us, and signed for it. In such a case it would be made available to you on an as-needed basis."

"And if it were gone?" said Strang, with an air of curiosity.

"The person who had it would be located," Agent Paulson said, though her listeners heard "hunted down like a mad dog," "and they would be relieved of the phone, most of the contents of their bank accounts, and very likely their liberty. Theft of any Cybertronian technology carries heavy penalties."

"Golly," Strang said, and Edwards scowled.

Agent Paulson smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Mr. Strang, you may wish to let your technical personnel know that an operative whom I shall call 'Jazz' unlocked that phone for you, but only part of it is in the clear. If your personnel have cracked the rest, he will want heads on a platter, and I have asked to be the agent assigned to do that work. Be in no doubt that I can. With a spoon, if I have to."

DA Edwards looked at her, and the deputy frankly gaped. Tall, red curls and waves tumbling past her shoulders, perfectly manicured, slender, immaculately fit and dressed by fashion designers who probably fought amongst themselves to pay her to wear their clothes? There was no doubt in their minds that she could do it, and if the spoon wasn't sharp that would make no difference at all to either Paulson or her victims.

But Strang smiled at her. "Yes, I saw the seals. Made me slobber, but I have zero clearance for anything like that. Interesting to look at, though."

Both the other men in the room saw her smile back at him, and experienced a pang of jealousy. All she said, though, was, "Yes."

Edwards said, "Very well, Agent Paulson. I'll send for the phone immediately."

"I'll watch you put it into the safe, if you don't mind."

He did mind, but the feds led the dance. He went to his desk and picked up his phone. "Dana, put me through to the property room, please."

Location and transport of Raf's cell phone would prove to require twenty-two minutes. The parties involved did not silently glower at one another for that length of time; they must have talked about something. But none of the Clark County employees could remember what that was.

Perhaps it was because Agent Paulson calmly and efficiently, but very slowly, unbuttoned the four buttons on her left jacket sleeve in the first seven minutes. The second seven were devoted to unbuttoning the four on the right. However, it took her only eight minutes to get them all buttoned up again; she finished just before a tap on the door heralded the arrival of a deputy carrying a small box.

DA Edwards rose from the conference table with an air of profound relief, opened the box, took out the phone, verified that it was the phone on the papers, and signed for it. The deputy gave him two of five copies of the form, glanced over once at Agent Paulson, and left.

DA Edwards stepped over to a painting of sailboats on the wall and altered the course of the vessels in the frame by about ninety degrees. Then he put his back to the others in the room, and opened his safe. They watched him put the phone and its paperwork back into the box, place the box in the safe, shut the door, spin the dial, and set the sailboats back on their original course.

Paulson stood. "Thank you, Mr. Edwards. I appreciate your cooperation."

He said, "Agent Paulson, you're welcome," and opened the door for her to pass out of the room.

Once it shut behind her, Strang said, "Man, oh man," and ran a finger under his collar. Edwards, who failed utterly to disagree, loosened his tie.

Agent Paulson walked out into the pallid warmth of Las Vegas' late afternoon in late April; she threw her briefcase into the land yacht. She herself followed, and she fired up the car. Half the guys on the porch swallowed their cigarettes when powerful engines began to burble.

She pulled out, and returned to the Mission City base to report back to both Prowl and Director Mearing, and await transport back to DC.

End Part Thirty


	31. Chapter 31

Part Thirty-One

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Optimus rolled to a stop at the foot of the slope leading up to Buzzard Rock. The path from here was fine for cycleformers to navigate in alt mode, but not for eighteen-wheelers. Diarwen got out as he transformed, took a step up onto his palm, and balanced lightly as he lifted her to his collar fairing: a routine as well-practiced between them as a ballroom dance by professional partners.

Diarwen's attention focused on the earth around them. "Have you noticed, the land seems at peace now that Raf has got himself a bit more settled?"

Optimus paused, grounded and centered, paid close attention to the "breath of the earth," as his beloved phrased it. He learned much more from that observation than he would have before they started studying together, but did not yet catch all the nuances.

Now that Diarwen showed him what to look for, there were eddies and currents in the flow of energy through the land. They were very like the variations in a bot's or human's energy field. Both indicated state of health and emotion, albeit the land's current moved and changed more slowly than any mortal creature's.

Mother Earth, real and alive and all around him. Like, and yet infinitely individual from, Primus Himself.

"I had not, but I see it now," he said. "You are a constant source of surprises, my love."

Diarwen smiled. "Good ones, I hope."

"For the most part, and always interesting," he replied.

Gravel crunched under his peds as he followed what was becoming a well-worn trail.

Jazz and Prowl were there ahead of them. Optimus watched them for a few moments as Jazz followed his bondmate through a difficult kata, while Diarwen dropped her things in her usual spot, laid out her sword and the dagger that Wheeljack had given her, and started her warm up routine.

For Cybertronians, "warming up" was precisely that, reaching an internal temperature that distributed lubricants most effectively for the demands of a practice session—or a fight, if one had the luxury of anticipating it. The run up here had served that purpose for Optimus; had she literally run, it might have for Diarwen as well.

Ratchet had tightened up Optimus' shoulder assembly the day before. In Cybertronian terms, the Battle of Chicago and the amputation of his arm were quite recent, and the new cables installed in the course of his repairs were still settling.

He unsubspaced his sword and took a few experimental cuts. One of the cables in the arm creaked loudly as it stretched. He immediately relaxed out of the extension and ran a quick diagnostic.

He looked up to see Diarwen favoring him with an instructor's critical stare. "That lateral flexor cable?"

He nodded. "I had Ratchet look at it yesterday, but it still does not feel quite right. I think it is the local materials. The cable is more than strong enough, but it is...different. I may simply need a heavier grade of lubricant."

His beloved cocked a silver eyebrow at him. "Do you have any? If you can loosen the plate, I believe I can get the applicator in there. There is no wind to speak of, so we need not worry about flying grit."

"I have some here. It should be enough." The sword disappeared into his subspace, and after a moment he located and pulled out a container of heavy grease.

Jazz had never shaken the habits of vorn-long sabotage missions behind enemy lines, and carried all sorts of things in his subspace. "Ah have more here if ya need it, boss bot."

"Thank you, Jazz, this may be sufficient." He loosened his armor so that Diarwen could reach the underlying structures.

She took the nozzle of the grease can and located the sticking point, a set of cable guides just below his shoulder joint. "That cable may be strong enough, but it is much rougher than the other one. The other is Cybertronian?"

"Yes, the last that Ratchet had available."

"I cannot quite—can you release the plate just a little more?"

"Not...intentionally."

Jazz said, "Here, lemme get a servo in there." The smaller bot scrambled up, gave a sensor cluster a quick rap, then took advantage of the temporary numbness while it reset to pull up on the plating. He was careful not to loosen any attachment points, but yanking on it would have been painful if not for the improvised field anesthetic.

Diarwen quickly applied the grease. "Does Ratchet know of that trick, Jazz?"

"Yeah, but he's pretty sure nobot else should!" floated up as the saboteur leapt down.

Diarwen laughed softly as she got her hands out of the way, allowing Optimus to draw his plating back. He flexed his servo, distributing the grease and carefully examining the cable path for any other potential places the cable might get fouled as he did so. "Thank you, both of you. That is much better."

Jazz said, "We gotta do something about these supply problems, boss. Salvagin' the _Ark _has to become a priority."

"Yes. I also do not like the idea of leaving it unguarded at a location which is possible, if difficult, for the humans to access while their governments are aware of its location. If the Decepticons served any purpose while they were there, it was at least to keep it out of the hands of individual nations. I do not know how much information the humans' remote rovers could gather from it, but nothing good comes of having it there."

"That is truth," Diarwen said. "What any king sees, he is likely to covet. While few human nations literally have kings these days, the principle remains the same."

Jazz kicked planning the recovery operation several notches up the priority list, and then deliberately turned his attention from that list to the present.

One of the benefits of circle was a restful break from the concerns of leadership. He rejoined Prowl, as Optimus and Diarwen returned to their interrupted routine.

One by one the others arrived and started their warm-up routines or paced off a practice area large enough to safely avoid everyone else. Diarwen welcomed them as they arrived, and then the air filled with the sound of revving engines, battle cries both human and Cybertronian, and the ring of steel on steel.

Diarwen pressed the sequence of buttons commanding her new dagger to transform to its hand axe form.

She was no rank beginner with such weapons. During the American colonial period and for some years following the Revolution, tomahawks had been fairly ubiquitous on the frontier. Those were lighter weapons, as often thrown as used hand to hand.

A different style was required to use this as a primary weapon. Optimus had chosen to teach his Consort a modified version of the Cybertronian style he learned long ago.

He drew his axe and transferred it to his right servo. In battle he tended to dual-wield it as a secondary, usually defensive, weapon to his sword, used in the right servo.

Optimus thought with satisfaction that he was learning from these practice sessions as much as was Diarwen. Not since the siege of Iacon had he felt comfortable devoting practice time and energon to a style he rarely used in battle. With peace had come less scarcity of both time and fuel, and he was grateful for the luxury.

Diarwen practiced forms with a cold blade, so that she could devote her entire focus to perfecting her technique; once she had the techniques committed to muscle memory, she would practice drawing Fire to the dagger. But that, on this crisp morning, was in the future.

Her long span of training body and mind to learn together had left the Sidhe very fast to pick up new techniques. Optimus never had to offer the same correction twice; that was remarkable in an organic.

Still, he threw up a servo, and they halted. "When you attack, beloved," he said, "you must not lose the swordbearer's habit of being aware of the angle of your blade."

He watched her eyes change, and she said, "So I must not."

They resumed. He reminded her of the classic axewielder's trick of hooking one's opponent's blade and yanking it away.

She laughed. "I had forgotten that!"

When the time allotted for her lesson ended, both Optimus and Diarwen were fully limber, and rather pleased with themselves. They bowed to one another, and went to their respective solo practices.

Diarwen spent some time practicing the blade's transformation commands, as she would every morning until the sequence had become muscle memory. Once she reached proficiency in that, she would have the option to use either of its modes as the situation required.

That took little concentration, being sheer repetition; still, she concentrated, using the High Priestess' trick of maintaining most of her focus on what she was doing, and keeping an unfocused awareness on her students.

Once satisfied with her day's efforts, she turned the whole of her focus to them. Jazz and Prowl had finished their forms and settled into meditation. Evanon and the other boys were practicing a shotokan karate kata along with Chip, Mikaela, and Chip's assistant, Jack Binns. Diarwen had given Evanon her blessing to learn the human style, because it encouraged sparring with a wider variety of people.

Miko had brought her naginata, was displaying an un-Mikolike patience in her practice with it.

Diarwen had learned that, in Japan, the naginata was in modern times a woman's weapon. Most Japanese women who studied it now did so for exercise and to develop balance and grace, not primarily as a combat art. There were, however, schools that still taught the style as it had been practiced when ladies of the samurai class had been expected to defend the castle while their men were away at war. Miko had sought out one of these schools.

Upon first meeting her, Diarwen would never have thought Miko had the discipline to learn a martial art, but when she stepped into a dojo or came to circle, a different side of her came out, the woman the child was becoming.

Raf's near suicide had brought that Miko out full force. Diarwen was determined that, while maturation was the inevitable and proper course of healing from such a trauma, Miko-the-woman should not lose touch with Miko-the-child in the process.

A weapon intended to keep a larger opponent at a distance, negating his advantages of greater strength and longer reach, also served to put vulnerable areas of a Cybertronian's frame within reach of a human opponent.

At the time this style had been developed, Japanese women averaged on the short side of five feet tall. The style accounted for their smaller size in relation to their opponents; any Cybertronian who thought it would be a simple matter to grab Miko's weapon was due a rude awakening.

Diarwen was familiar with the use of a polearm against Fomori, and had made a few suggestions, which Miko had incorporated into her own style. Now, she and Obsidian danced around the circle of sand that they had claimed.

Obsidian had some background in a Cybertronian martial art known as diffusion, a style popular among the nobility which, as its name suggested, was primarily a "soft" art, concerned with defense: gracefully avoiding an enemy's strike or redirecting its energy. As Obsidian had explained to Diarwen, redirecting it might turn its force back against the aggressor, or simply ground it. It was like aikido in that, as opposed to "hard" arts such as karate or the Cybertronian metallikato—or Miko's naginata style.

The two of them had reached the level at which they were permitted to spar freely, but this was a recent accomplishment: Diarwen and Prowl both kept them under supervision while they did so.

As the practice session drew to a close, three Pretenders approached, all of them in root mode. One of them was Dewayne Sturman, given away by his bulk and shiny black paint job. The other two were almost identical, plain shiny silver paint jobs and blue optics. Diarwen recognized them by their auras; one was Raf and the other was Derek Pierpoint. Raf was a little smaller, but there was nothing that would scream "youngling" to any observing human.

Neither Derek nor Dewayne was a regular at circle, but they had volunteered to keep Raf company so he could be out and around. He had not been cleared for martial arts practice yet, but he was allowed to come to the circle itself which followed.

Diarwen greeted and welcomed them all, just as she would anyone who dropped in, adding a smile and a wink for Raf.

They all settled around the cauldron's fire, which was still quite welcome at this time of year as they cooled off from their exercise. A semicircle had been cleared against the wall of Buzzard Rock, and Optimus sat with his back to the wind at one side. The other bots formed an outer perimeter, sheltering the circle very well.

Diarwen asked, "Has anyone not completed the reading on the origins and meaning of Beltane?"

There was a rustle as notebooks and datapads were retrieved from backpacks and subspace holds.

Jazz said, "Ah hadda read it a couple of times. Ah was really puzzled the first time through, until it clicked about organic sexual dimorphism. Ah see you smirkin' at me, Junior Epps, you shut your mouth," he grinned. "Y'all gotta remember, most of us were sparked by the All-spark, not hatched. This whole thing of havin' creators instead o' bein' sparked into a cohort ain't exactly the first thing we think about."

Diarwen nodded. "I thought that might be a concern. Remember, to organics in the dawn times, a man and a maiden became mates, and out of that union a child suddenly appeared. In those early days, they did not know what precisely caused a woman to kindle. Of course, they observed that children followed mating, as they were not stupid, but they did not understand the biology involved. To them, the birth of a child was the first and greatest of all magical workings: in their eyes, something from nothing. Therefore, the metaphor of the earliest creation stories was that of God and Goddess joining in the Great Marriage and giving rise to all of creation. We understand now that the Big Bang was the mechanism by which this took place in the physical world. But those creation stories are still quite a good metaphor for what took place in those very earliest moments, for those of us who believe that Deity preceded the moment of creation of our universe.

"At Beltane, the Celtic peoples as well as my own folk commemorate the Great Marriage of the Goddess and the God, and ask Their blessings of fertility on the herds, the fields, and ourselves, that the People may continue."

Junior snickered. "Now that's what I call a religious holiday!"

Evanon smacked him on the back of the head.

The others may not have been quite so irreverent about it, but Diarwen sensed agreement in more than one aura. Young once herself, she smiled tolerantly, and allowed the two boys to settle physically that Junior was not going to be able to nullify the lawful hit by socking Evanon. They performed this ritual without rising...

That established, she said, "This is not a thing to take lightly. For one thing, in my tradition, in all acts of love, we worship the Goddess. There is no wrong in that—but remember, harm none. There have always been some pagans out there who use the Great Rite as an excuse to bring the desired one to their couch, with less concern for that person's welfare than for their own pleasure. That is never right, in and of itself, but to use the Great Rite, the holiest ritual of my people, in such a way? That is an insult to the Goddess. If within my tribe someone was accused and convicted of such, an execution was carried out immediately."

Silence stretched out. Then Chip said, seeming to muse over the words as he spoke them, "Can't argue with that. You insult the deity at your peril, and your people's as well."

Diarwen smiled at the young man. He was not one of the Goddess' chosen, but he certainly thought correctly about the issues involved. "Yes, Chip it was for exactly that reason that the transgressor had to die. No person willing to risk the well-being of the entire group for such transitory benefit to himself could be tolerated within it.

"Now, as for the sex: we choose to do no harm as a first principle: it drives everything, everything, we do. Using the Great Rite to coerce someone into submitting sexually is an affront to the gods, as it remains whether without or within that ritual. Consent is everything, and as it is said, _only_ yes means yes.

"Consider also that the Goddess is neither a prize nor a conquest. Every one of us, human, Sidhe, or Cybertronian, is Her Child, and those among us who are women or carriers are mortal versions of Her: likewise, neither prize nor conquest. When you look at one who would be your partner, see in them the God or the Goddess, and by your actions honor the Divine in them, whether it be for a night or for a lifetime."

She met each pair of eyes, to ensure that the message was received.

"If someone tells you that you must offer yourself to them in order to be a part of their group or to be initiated into their magic, leave. They are not on the same path you are; if they say they are on mine, they lie. Advancement in my tradition never requires that of anyone, nor should it within any genuinely spiritual tradition."

Raf spoke up, quite unexpectedly. "Sexual bullying is always sexual bullying."

A few pairs of eyes and optics shone with lubricating fluid over that; Raf, among all of them, knew that to his struts.

Diarwen simply nodded, to honor the survivor, and said, "Yes, Raf, that is the way to look at it. Absolutely true."

Once Raf's aura settled, she went on. "The Great Rite is part of the Beltane celebration, as well as of handfastings, and some other rituals as well, such as elevation to the second and third levels of the priesthood in some traditions. In my tradition, as well as in many others, the priest and priestess celebrating the Rite invite the Goddess and the God to inhabit their bodies during the ritual, to be a part of the reenactment of their union: the priest and priestess offer Them the physical experience of lovemaking.

"As I stated, this is the holiest of our rituals, for in its performance we acknowledge that everything that ever was, is, or will be springs from the Divine: our lives and everything around us, from the smallest grain of sand unto the farthest star. This ritual is one, but only one, way to give thanks for our existence."

She looked at the circle of known and beloved faces about her. "Yet the celebration of the Great Rite in true, as it is called, is meant to be private, between the Lady and the Lord, the High Priestess and her High Priest. The celebrants retire to a place of privacy for that part of the ritual.

"As well, there is another way, when physical union is not desirable. The Great Rite can be performed symbolically, using the chalice and the athame, and young people such as yourselves who are old enough to understand the symbolism and to respect the sanctity of the ritual will be allowed to attend a symbolic celebration of the Great Rite. Young children are normally excluded. But, except as part of a handfasting, in my tradition carrying out a Great Rite in one's physical person is the province of the priesthood. Even in a symbolic Great Rite, the celebrants are normally a committed couple. That is so because we are honoring the marriage of the God and Goddess, themselves a committed couple."

Prowl said thoughtfully, "But this is not a spark-bond, nor the human equivalent. If I have understood what I read correctly, the Goddess and the God are the"—his browplates crinkled briefly—"the equivalent of the male and female principle. In matter, they might be said to be expressed by the negative and positive charges that bind subatomic particles into matter."

Raf leaned forward as his optics lit. "I had never thought of it that way, but that makes a lot of sense. Why else would things hold together? Without the Great Rite, the commitment of positive to negative, it all falls apart."

Diarwen experienced that warmth around the heart a teacher does when she realizes that a student has taken what she taught and expanded it beyond the teacher's own understanding.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen picked up her things and walked around the area, making sure that the land was left untouched by their brief occupancy. Water bottles and snack wrappers were quite rude, beyond the capacity of her students at this point (if she had anything to say about it). But once she had found an overlooked shuriken stuck in the sand, waiting for someone to tread upon it. It was always the responsibility of the last to leave a practice area to police it, leaving it in a safe condition for the next to pass through, whether other people or the creatures of the land.

Once satisfied, she returned to their spot at the foot of Buzzard Rock, where Optimus watched the shadow of the huge rock formation slowly creep toward them as the sun rose.

"Diarwen, I have a question. What if only carriers—women—are available to celebrate Beltane? Must the celebration wait until a priest is present?"

"Ah. No. I can only speak for my tradition, but in such a case, it is permissible for a priestess to wear a sword, and fully express her male aspect for the purposes of a symbolic ritual. For generations, there have been holy orders of priestesses, orders sacred to the Lady which do not admit men; this compromise is far older than I. Why do you ask?"

Optimus explained, "Jazz' remark about the sexual dimorphism of organics set me to thinking about where my people fall into the structure of this ritual. We do not have males and females, as you do. 'Mech' and 'femme' are descriptors of psychological gender, originally set in place by the semi-organic Quintessons. We are shape-changers, by nature—the mech or femme form is shaped by the will of the spark inhabiting that frame. And that will, that person, is mutable. If an individual experiences a personality shift causing them to see themselves as the other gender, or neither, or a combination of both, then the frame naturally transforms to match the needs of the spark which inhabits it. There are neutral pronouns in our language for those who prefer not to concern themselves with gender or are too young a spark to have developed a preference, as well as another set of pronouns for those who are a little of both.

"But your tradition speaks of the physical ability to carry life. Of Cybertronian species who bear young, such as Seekers and other flight frames, any individual can carry. Most other frame types no longer have this ability, but our specifications make it apparent that most of us did, once. If the materials existed, undoubtedly it would be possible to reverse these later modifications, install the necessary programming modules, and restore our ability to bear young. So would one such as myself, who has never had the physical ability to carry, be considered priest or priestess for the purposes of this ritual?"

"H'mm. _Acushla_, that is something to think about. A barren woman is still very much a woman, for all that. As a priest, what are your thoughts on it? Or, more to the point, what do you think Lord Primus' feelings on the matter would be?"

"I believe that will require meditation. I have never considered such a question before."

"Consider this: my people have long accepted that every person has both a masculine and a feminine aspect, and this is why the all-female covens arrived at the compromise that they did."

"What of all-male groups?"

"My people have never had all-male societies, so I cannot speak to it from the point of view of my traditions. Among humans, there were all-male priesthoods and societies of hunters or warriors, but at least among pagans, they nearly always had wives, so there were women available to stand as priestess in the ritual. I do not know if it is possible for a male to 'strap on the cauldron' and become female. I know that modern witches disdain the practice. But I _have_ heard of priests calling down the moon, and priestesses calling down the sun."

Optimus rumbled thoughtfully as he subspaced the cauldron, now cool enough for his heat-dispersion systems to deal with. "In the Prime/Protector dyad, it is traditional for the Prime to teach and guide and nurture the people, while the Protector was the warrior and defender of the two. Since my Elevation, I have been both out of necessity. I do not know that I know how to be...a traditional Prime. I wonder if I am not missing half of what I should be, because of that."

Diarwen scowled, and Optimus felt the disapproval in his beloved's fields. "Sentinel's karma is certainly not to be envied, to leave you with such questions! Your own identity is something that you have every right to know and understand, and to choose for yourself. You ought not have been forced into any such decision by circumstances not of your own will. —Have not other Primes and Protectors identified as mech or femme, just as do others of your kind?"

"Yes. But again...that has nothing to do with carrying a sparkling."

"No, it does not." She laid her hand on his leg plating. "You have posed questions to which I have no answers, dearest one, but I will help you to seek those answers, whatever they turn out to be."

Later that night, as she prepared for sleep, Diarwen realized that Optimus, like Brigit, had triple functions: most urgently he had become the warrior, who defended his people to the best of his ability, not counting the cost.

While he was not created a carrier, as he had said, in the calling of spark to frame, surely he was midwife, another of Brigit's callings.

Passing the flame of life from generation to generation, Diarwen mused, was the same whether that spark resided in a mechanical or a fleshly being. What powered Brigit's Forge through the green furst drove the flower, as Dylan Thomas had once written.

Thomas, whatever his other failings, had been a superb craftsman, another facet of Brigit equally true of the Prime. Optimus had accepted the supreme challenge of building a society on a strange world, a _wet_ world inhabited by illogical beings. Craftsmanship of the highest order was required to keep all those balls in the air, but her beloved, with patience, grace, and forbearance, had carved out a space for all of his people. Another sort of midwifery, if you thought about it; statesmanship was a craft of the highest order.

End Part Thirty-One


	32. Chapter 32

Part Thirty-Two

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

After they returned to their apartment, Diarwen did not see Optimus again until late that evening. She had a morning shift at the daycare center, and a lunch meeting with the base chaplain about getting her certification to serve as a volunteer chaplain; the afternoon was consumed by preparation for the Beltane Sabbat.

Optimus was still out when she returned home around 1700 hours. She got an apple and a glass of milk and took them to her desk, where she got out her datapad and worked on a translation for a while. The afternoon sun, beginning to turn from warm to hot now that spring was here, still lay gently on the landscape outside her window. In another month, it would be an oven out there at this time of day. She hoped that they would be finished moving into the Cliff House by then.

It was nearly 1900 hours when Optimus finally came in, his fields roiled and showing the gray of fatigue. "I am sorry to have deserted you, my love. I was with Burnout, and then I had to go to admin for a few moments. Diarwen, are you free tomorrow after circle?" He opened the energon cube that he had brought with him from the commissary.

His fields displayed such distress that Diarwen did not even reach for her organizer before replying in her almost-Irish lilt, "Sure and I can be. What are you needing, _acushla_?"

Optimus took a long drink, stood staring at the cube in his servo, and exhausted a long sigh before he said, "I spoke in depth with Burnout about the training of young Prime Candidates at the temple in Simfur. He was a temple sparkling during Lio Prime's acolyte vorn there; Lio had just been Elevated to his Primacy when I came to the palace as a new mechling."

"What have you discovered that has troubled you so?"

Her ability to read him was quite often a source of surprise. Optimus glanced at her standing there in her warrior's green, her favorite color; she wore blues and purples occasionally, but mostly dressed herself in Her Lady Brigit's color.

One fifth his own height, and still ready to go to war on his behalf. Optimus smiled, but sighed, "That my education was even more restricted than I realized. Sentinel persuaded the other Primes to delay my acolyte vorn on the pretext that it was necessary for my own safety to keep me within the protection of Iacon's walls. I was taught the warrior path there, and I knew the path of the priest awaited me when it was deemed safe for me to go to Simfur. I did not know there was a third path that I would also have been taught at Simfur."

Diarwen let out a long breath and sat down slowly. "Of course. My Lady Brigit rules three Fires: that of Inspiration, as patroness of poetry, which served as Her people's archives-"

"What!" Optimus said, astonishment engraved across his faceplates. "She is then patroness of archivists?"

Diarwen remembered that Optimus' pre-Elevation occupation was that of archivist. "That would be a modern way of looking at it, Optimus, but I see no fault in the reasoning."

"I see. Go on, please."

"Very well. Her second Fire is that of the Forge, as patroness of smithcraft, and through metal weapons, warriors themselves. The third is that of the Hearth, from which She guards fertility and healing, and is the Protectress of mothers in childbirth. Since you have already trod the paths of the warrior and the archivist, the third path would be that of the midwife. That causes me to wonder if this third path has to do with the Allspark?"

He smiled with relief. "Precisely. There was much that I did not know about it because that knowledge was bound to the oaths of priestly ranks I did not achieve. With Burnout's help, I have learned that I was not made ready when I might have been. There are meditations that I should have begun learning early on, in order to become attuned to the Allspark, that I might attract the most suitable spark to a frame brought before it. Gaia is most insistent that I learn these meditations before she is old enough to begin to channel the Allspark energy."

"But, Optimus, did you not call sparks from the Well before you had to send the All-Spark away?"

"Yes," he replied. "And I know now, that calling was in a great measure randomly done. How many of those sparks were unsuited for the lives they led? How many of them died because I called them to the wrong frames?"

"May the Wild Hunt take that fool, Sentinel!" Diarwen cursed. "All that pain, all that death, _all_ of that, Optimus, lies entirely upon him, and not a single feather's-weight on you!"

Optimus sighed, and pressed the cool cube to his browplates. "It is not that simple. I acted in ignorance, knowing that I was doing so."

Diarwen had picked up her teacup; she set it down with a clack. "You acted out of a lack of options. No guilt attaches."

"Diarwen. I was young, but it would not have been impossible for me to call Sentinel to account over some things I knew were being...mishandled. Delayed past the point of reason, at the very least. And I did not do so." He frowned, looking into memories that clearly pained him.

His Consort frowned herself. "I suspect that you did so the instant circumstances required you to disobey your lord's command, aye?"

"After Guardian's murder, yes."

Diarwen hesitated. Her Sidhe folk were a volatile, high-tempered lot, prideful and often vain; there lay her own faults as well. She knew that well-crafted speech could calm her when she was angry. But this was Optimus, who valued truth above fair words.

And a teacher owed her student nothing less. She swallowed, hard, and straightened her shoulders. What she was about to say could very well end their relationship, if she had misread him.

"Optimus, there is a difference between responsibility and fault. When you were a mechling, both responsibility and fault lay with Sentinel—and, to some extent that I cannot judge, with the other Primes. Your duty was to obey, until you had evidence that your duty lay elsewhere. After you became a Prime, yes, 'twas your responsibility, for it happened on your watch, as my brother Will would say. Responsibility, though, is not the same as fault. You are mature enough now to know that difference, and," she cocked a silver brow at him, "to appreciate it. To take on more than your share is hubris of a sort."

He was silent for a while, thinking that through. "So many died, Diarwen, so many. City after city fell, and I could have stopped it...somehow."

"Aye, but in that 'somehow,' _acushla_, lies this truth: you were prevented from knowing the things you needed to know, quite likely because with that knowledge would have come the power to foil the fallen Primes' plans. With those two behind the scenes, even Megatron's death early in the war might have changed nothing. Another rebel would have gotten their support, and Cybertron rolled further along their chosen course will-you nill-you."

Optimus dropped his optics, which had been glued to his teacher's silver-gray eyes. "I will need a while to sort my own culpability from theirs."

"Begin," Diarwen said, tart as an under-ripe apple, "by assuming that all of it is theirs, and seek out for yourself that which, _knowing only what you knew at the time_, you had still the choice to avoid. That and solely that is your own."

Optimus bowed his helm, and accepted the task. Diarwen let time pass, and when she judged it was safe to do so, spoke.

"What is it that we are to do tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? Oh. I am going to seek guidance from Primus regarding this third path. It will require me to enter a very deep meditative state, such that I will not be able to assume battle-readiness with any great speed. I would have you watch over me, along with Sideswipe, Hot Rod, and Burnout. Ironhide and Sunstreaker will be there as well, guarding the approaches to the temple. If you wish to enter meditation with me, as my mate you have that right."

She bowed her own head, as the love between them, undamaged, flowed over her. "I would be honored to do so."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen maintained silence for her beloved for the rest of that day and night. The next morning, she ate very lightly, not wishing to ground herself with food, after a very thorough shower and energetic cleansing.

When Optimus drove up to the temple, Sideswipe and Hot Rod flanking himself and Diarwen, he found Arcee, Flareup, Chromia, and Ratchet ranged into two converging lines, the temple the base and Ironhide the apex of a triangle. His cohort was here in its entirety.

To Diarwen's surprise and his own he was challenged by his foster-father.

"Halt! Who goes there? For I am Protector of this Temple."

The ancient weapons specialist charged his guns, and his optics turned an especially dark blue. Optimus knew this meant that his foster-father had been given duties without clear parameters, and was thus in overkill mode: doing everything he could think of to make the situation come out right. A wash of humor rushed through his fields, reassuring Diarwen (who _thought_ she'd recognized a Keeper of the Circle when she saw one, but was expecting no such being). She disembarked, and he transformed to root-mode.

"Protector, I am Optimus, the last Prime of Cybertron." He sent his full string of identity glyphs. Ironhide certainly didn't have the Protector coding activated, but he'd been serving that purpose ever since Megatron had refused the bond between them, so long ago: and, of course, all through Optimus' sparklinghood, as well.

"What do you here this day?"

_Ah_, thought Optimus, _the challenge. Yes, it is right and fitting that this be offered_. "I am come to deepen my relationship to Primus through meditation, Protector, for the greater benefit of my people."

"Who stands with you?"

"My Consort."

"Who stands for you?"

"Hot Rod, who may tread my path after me. Sideswipe, who guards my physical well-being."

Ironhide drew from his subspace a sword Diarwen had never seen before, a fearsome thing of simple, lethal sinuousness. The Nevada sunlight glittered off it in a way all the neon in Las Vegas could not duplicate.

With this instrument of destruction he lightly touched Optimus' plating just above his spark chamber. "Have you the courage required? For it is better to fall upon my weapon and thereby perish than to make the attempt with fear in your spark."

"I am come to prove my courage."

"What is the password?"

_Password? I was given no password..._and then the obvious asserted itself, and Optimus replied, "Till all are one."

Ironhide's optics changed back to their normal blue. "All who have the password are doubly welcome," he said, and the fearsome sword fell to his side, while his other servo wrapped around Optimus' arm, and his fields showed warmth, and love, and tenderness. "Enter, and be welcome; it falls to my honor to defend this space against all malign intent while you are within."

Optimus felt the cleaning fluid rush to his optics. "I thank you, Protector," he said, and returned the arm-clasp.

Diarwen to one side, Optimus entered the temple.

Whatever might come, he had his cohort behind him, he had his Protector at his back (coding be damned), he had his beloved at his side, and all of those persons in their various ways had made the time to come here in his support. Optimus' fields settled, and Diarwen, again in her warrior's green, flicked a glance at him.

The temple of Primus was a simple west-facing hollow in the surrounding hillside, much as might result from taking a clamshell to scoop out wet sand from a dune at the seashore. Its height was sufficient to allow Optimus to stand upright almost all the way to the back, and its width was such that most of the Cybertronians now living in Nevada could assemble within it in root-mode.

This early in the morning, the cave lay in deep shadow but for the eternal flame, casting a flickering glow over the tapestries of Primus and the Original Primes.

Optimus and Diarwen came to stop just outside it.

Burnout waited near the flame. His night had been spent cleansing the space and making preparations for the Prime's meditation; Burnout had not been called to do anything similar in literal vorn, and it amazed him how comforting it was to perform traditional tasks in the traditional way (albeit, on this new planet, with new materials).

Diarwen made the shift into consecrated mind-space by willing it so, a method open only to those with much, much practice in the doing. Optimus too took a moment to center and right himself, then, his Consort a pace behind, he walked to Burnout and made the bow of lesser to higher priest of Primus.

"Optimus," Burnout said. "I welcome you in the name of Primus."

"Burnout, I thank you."

The priest, wearing a tabard that Milestrina had woven for him, made a this-way gesture, and led them deeper into the cave. Sideswipe and Rodi took up positions facing outward; with Ironhide, they spaced themselves across the opening, shielding Optimus with a wall of spark and plating. Mundane world in front of them, and sacred ground behind.

Beyond them, Ratchet and Chromia in the center, flanked by Flareup and Arcee, formed the outer perimeter.

And beyond them, pride leaking out of the seams in their armor, all the Wreckers ranged themselves. They were cohort of a member of Optimus' cohort, hight Ratchet; one of theirs, Hot Rod, had been asked to accompany Optimus. They might have been kept away by a direct nuclear strike, but nothing else would suffice.

The eternal flame burned from a simple cube roughly two meters on a side at the farthest reach of temple into hillside, its tracery of energon channels muted as the sun had not yet fallen upon it to create the energon that fed the flame. Behind it, the roof fell sharply to meet the valley floor. Burnout sat to the left of the flame, and at his gesture, Optimus chose a place that put both the flame and the priest directly in his sight. Diarwen moved to Optimus' right, and sat just behind him...not quite out of his line of sight.

Burnout applied fire to a small ceramic object; a pleasant scent began to fill the room.

Optimus was plainly startled by it. "Where did you get that?" he said to Burnout. "Surely rescel is not available here on Earth."

Burnout smiled: not the carefree grin Diarwen had often seen, but the small, assured smile of a being immersed in his calling. "It is not. But Ratchet has been amusing himself of late by learning the humans' science of chemistry, and he recreated it for us. I gather several explosions took place which could not be laid at Wheeljack's peds."

Diarwen smiled. "Frankincense, juniper...those are both common in ritual incenses across many cultures, my own included. But I do not recognize that other resin...?"

"That is the rescel itself," Optimus explained. "The resin was a product of Caladus, one of the first organic worlds that we encountered; the incense was a favorite of Nova Prime's. He negotiated the import of many things from the Caladians, and their incenses and oils were extremely popular. During Nemesis Prime's depredations, Caladus was nearly annihilated. After Nemesis' defeat, Prima led the effort to make reparations, but the process was very slow, and such things as rescel became extremely rare and expensive. Its use was restricted to the temple at Simfur.

"When our war began, the people of Caladus chose to migrate rather than be caught up in another of our conflicts. I have no idea how Ratchet so closely mimicked rescel's properties. Caladus was a very hot, swamp-covered world. Its plant life was nothing like that of Earth."

Diarwen said, "Sometimes that we thought forever lost returns to us in unexpected ways."

"Indeed."

Burnout said, "If you are ready, I shall begin the Chant of the Winding Road."

"I am ready," Optimus said.

"And you, Prime Consort?"

"I too am ready," Diarwen said.

A religious chant in Cybertronian is not the most pleasant of experiences to human-plan ears. Diarwen coached herself to listen to the rhythm of it; she caught some words, but came to understand that others were earlier forms, and some were nothing she was familiar with. She let the sound wash through her, exactly as she would if it were a hymn to Brigit.

...and suddenly, they were all three standing in that place beyond place once more, the Land of the Well of All Sparks.

"Optimus!" piped a tiny voice.

Optimus looked down; his faceplates softened into a warm smile at the sight of the tiny femmeling beside him. "Gaia! Greetings, smallspark. I thought you were taking a nap."

She put her servos behind her back and swiveled herself back and forth. "Was. But He woke me up. I'm supposed to show you some stuff. It's really important. Hi, Diarwen!"

"Gaia, I greet thee." Diarwen bowed her head.

Burnout knelt to Gaia. "Lady Allspark," he said reverently.

"Hi, Burnout," the sparkling said. "Are you coming with us?"

Burnout felt a smile attach itself to his faceplates: the reaction that Gaia provoked in everybot who met her. "No, my lady, my job is to wait here in case anyone gets lost. The Prime Consort will be going with you, though."

Gaia nodded. "Good!"

Diarwen said, "You are growing very quickly."

"Not...growing, exactly. _Learning."_

"I see," Diarwen smiled. "It is very good to see you again."

"I'm always right here!"

"I know you are. But most of the time, I can only tell that you are present by the difference you make in Optimus' fields."

"Oh."

"You are welcome, Gaia, any time you wish to speak to me." Diarwen smiled again at the small one.

"'kay," Gaia said. She put her servos behind her back again.

Optimus asked the tiny femme, "Where would you have us go?"

Gaia held up those servos in the universal request of littles to be picked up. Optimus set Diarwen on his shoulder, waited until she was well situated, then handed Gaia up to her. It felt precisely as if the little femme maglocked to his plating.

She pointed to a faint path leading into the ever-present mist. Optimus nodded his thanks to Burnout, who would retrieve them should they lose their way, not unheard of in the forecourt of the Well.

The trail that Optimus followed was little more than a few ped scratches here and there on barren rock. Often it led between majestic stone spires, many times Optimus' own height, that characterized his experience with the plane surrounding the Well of All Sparks. The passages between grew so narrow that he had to carefully work his way past to avoid being stuck. Ensuring Diarwen's and Gaia's safety required intense concentration, and Optimus lost track of time; when he did think to look at his chronometer, it stubbornly said that no time at all had passed since he entered the Land of the Well.

Fair enough; they walked the fringes of eternity.

Something crunched underped, where "something" had not been previously. All of them alerted, and Optimus froze in place. He and his Consort had both been on enough battlefields that an unexpected metallic noise beneath the ped was a mine until proven otherwise.

Diarwen made one of her spark-stopping acrobatic leaps from his shoulder and investigated.

When she relaxed, he did, and carefully lifted his ped.

The rock had given way to fine sand in places. Here, a thin layer of sand lay over something metal. Diarwen brushed it away.

The object underneath was the outer half of a mech's servo, the two outer digits still attached, long, tapered, and fine—not the servo of a laboring mech.

Optimus scanned the sand around them. The rest of the mech was there as well, scattered about in several pieces.

Gaia did not seem upset by this macabre discovery. Optimus wondered if she did not know what she was seeing, or if she did not associate the remains with the horror of "finding a corpse" because they were so old.

Neither of those hypotheses seemed likely, but he had more immediate concerns. There should be no bodies this near the Well—those left by returning sparks, who no longer needed them, lay far beyond.

Optimus had been sent on a few quests during his schooling, before Sentinel intervened, and he had made more after leaving Cybertron. He knew that when a condition or object which did not make sense appeared on a Journey, one's immediate job was to understand why it was there. If bodies lay in an area which did not usually contain them, the artifact in question might not be a body, or the area they thought they were in... "Gaia, are we no longer at the outskirts of the Well?"

The small femmeling looked puzzled, then said, "He said that your memories would make what we're going to see. It's like...you saw stuff, but you didn't really see it then. I guess. I hope you understand it because I don't."

"So this is not real?"

"It's real, but—Diarwen, _is _it real?"

Optimus' Consort shook her head, but said, "It is real to us, little one. We have passed through the edge of the Well and moved further into the astral plane, where our wills, under the guidance of Primus, shape what is here. It will remain real as long as we are here to influence it. When no sentience remains here to impose will upon it, it returns to the mist from whence it came.—Optimus, it would seem that Primus wishes for you to review an old lesson, and bring to bear upon it your vorn of experience and learning."

"Very well. Let us continue."

Diarwen did not climb back to his shoulder, instead following behind him where she still had cover yet did not hinder him. He shifted Gaia to a more sheltered position, deeper within the protection of his armor, and they went on through more of the stone spires.

The ancient battle become more evident as the spires gave way to shattered towers, and the remains of a Cybertronian city was revealed whenever the mist parted for a moment.

Optimus said, "I know where we are. Ruined Praxus."

Diarwen's quick look of comprehension spoke volumes; she had helped him through a bad flux or two regarding this very battle. "Is this the route that you took to enter the city at its fall?"

"Yes," he said, looking at the dreamscape but seeing something else. "The Decepticons were holding many of the citizens in the Forum at the center of the city. Prowl had a plan to save as many citizens as possible by taking them out through the undercity. In order to buy him time, I led a team which mounted a diversionary action on the Decepticons' flank. We got their attention by poking them in the side, Gaia, so that they would not notice that their hostages were escaping, and more bots could get out safely."

The little femme cocked her helm sideways. "Why did the Allspark make bad bots who would do something like that?"

Optimus said, "The All-Spark does not make bad bots, little one. Every spark is made perfect, innocent, and whole to return from the Well to live a new mortal life. Some bots make the choice to be hateful, selfish, and mean while they are alive. Those choices make them into bad bots, but the Allspark does not create them that way."

"Oh. That's good."

Diarwen considered again the issue of accepting only that responsibility—and its karma—which one justly deserved. That lesson was urgent for Gaia, as well as Optimus.

"Which way shall we go?" Optimus asked Gaia.

She stood precariously on his shoulder plating, and he raised his servo to steady her. After a time of scowling and staring around at the ruins through the breaks in the drifting mist, she pointed off to their left, into the enveloping mist. They set out again, at a tangent to the shattered towers surrounding the forum.

There was less battle damage in this area. Though buildings had been looted and burned, the streets were not so filled with debris as had been true near the Forum. Optimus was able to transform and drive through the abandoned ruins.

When they came to a tall metal gate, half hanging on one hinge and the other half lying on the ground, Gaia said, "In here, Optimus."

"The university? Yes," he said. After all this time, some old sorrow darkened his fields, but he waited patiently while Diarwen helped Gaia climb down, then returned to root-mode and walked inside.

The Sidhe understood that her mate no longer needed a guide. He now knew where he was to go, and as she had sworn to, she accompanied him.

The University of Praxus looked much like a human university, given the difference in scale and the absence of ivy. The buildings were pleasingly proportioned and laid out not to crowd one another. Small details, like an ogee curve carved into stone windowsills, leant the whole complex an air of grace.

Ruined, crippled grace. Many buildings were cratered with bomb damage, more than a few razed to their foundations. The university had actually had two ivory-colored towers, but they lay now in shards.

The Hall of Records, where Optimus' sure peds led them, had been carved of mottled dark-red stone, with yellow roof tiles and white columns beside the door.

The war had come to it as well. One corner of the Hall lay smashed open to the sky, and datapads lay in heaps outside the Hall, all along its length: thrown out of the upper stories by looters, uncaring, who failed to see their value. Optimus went to one of those piles, unerringly accurate in his navigation after all these vorn.

Lying atop it was the shattered frame of a slightly-built mech, the dagger that had killed him still protruding from his chest plates. Optimus knelt to draw it free, and gently arranged the frame into a more decorous position, servos crossed over the fatal wound. "Rest well, old friend," he said softly. "Until all are one."

Diarwen waited in respectful silence for a long moment, Gaia quiet beside her. "Optimus, _acushla_, who is he?"

"Orderus." Optimus reset his optics. "He held the position of senior archivist at the Iacon Hall of Records when I began my apprenticeship there. A dear friend, and a staunch Autobot, though he was the furthest thing possible from a warrior. He decided to take a sabbatical to research a book that he was writing, and I encouraged him to do so." Optimus fell silent, then placed his hand gently on the dead mech's shoulder. Offering comfort to the dead, who could no longer be comforted.

Diarwen found herself blinking tears away, her throat hot and constricted. Once the battle to protect the other Sidhe in their exodus was over, she had so comforted her fallen Orthelion.

Optimus, his servo still on Orderus' dead shoulder, spoke again. "Orderus worked too hard, you see. I thought a rest, and the freedom to work on his own project, would do him a great deal of good. But my advice sent him here, put him directly into harm's way.

"When the hostage crisis at the Forum developed, I sent all our forces to deal with that. As you have seen, there was little true fighting in this area, the damage here was done later, by looters and vandals. The university community had plenty of warning that marauding gangs of Decepticons and their sympathizers were on their way here, and most of them had plenty of time to escape into the undercroft and rendezvous with those Praxians fleeing the forum.

"Orderus, though, remained behind too long: he was uploading data to the Hall of Records at Iacon. He was captured, and when he had no energon or other valuables to give the raiders, they killed him."

His guilt, and his grief, were immense: Diarwen let her aura speak for her, wrapping her beloved in it as Brigit wrapped the stricken in Her mantle. Optimus curled his digits gently around her.

Gaia toddled up the pile of slippery datapads to touch Orderus' servo. She said, "He wants to be a Seeker next time."

Optimus straightened. "You are...aware of his spark?"

"Yes. As long as you're thinking about him so hard, it makes a link. I can't feel all of the sparks at the same time, there are too many. But he's in the Well and waiting for his turn to be brought to a new frame. And next time he really, really wants to be a Seeker!"

Diarwen felt the paradigm shift in Optimus' aura, from mourning to anticipation.

Optimus reset his vocalizer twice before he could say, "Then we must be sure that is what happens, Gaia, when the day comes."

"It's a long time. Maybe a whole vorn!"

"Not so terribly long a time, femmeling," he said. "Let us leave this place. I believe that I have learned the lesson that Lord Primus set for me here, and I thank you, Gaia, for showing me the way."

Gaia said, "Y'r welcome," or she tried to in any case, as her vocoder hitched and her optics dimmed and blinked in the Cybertronian version of a yawn. "'m getting sleepy."

"Would you like to dock?"

"Yes, please." She jumped into the air and transformed to her Matrix form, levitating to Optimus' chestplates as he guided her to nestle in safety next to his spark.

Diarwen had a hunch what this had been about, but she still thought it would be good for Optimus to put the lesson into words. "What did you learn?" she asked, stepping onto his palm to be lifted to his shoulder.

"I was thinking in terms of the dead being lost to us. Oh, I know that they are safe in the Well of All Sparks, and I even know that they still interact with loved ones during ceremonies such as Acceptance. But that is a thin comfort. It was not until I listened to Gaia that I truly stopped thinking 'Orderus _was_' and began to think in terms of 'Orderus _is_.'"

Diarwen nodded. _"Acushla,_ you have carried much guilt that you do not deserve because you have been thinking, in that mundane way, that you were the ending of all these lives. For one thing, the most urgent part of the lesson it seems to me, those deaths were never your doing. Let Sentinel and Megatron and their cohort have what truly belongs to them: the suffering they caused directly."

He straightened beneath her, the automatic adjustment a body makes to a reboot of the mind within it. "Yes. They need that to grow." He felt a dark cloud loosen its grip of his neck and shoulders, and leave him.

Diarwen smiled. "For another, now you know to your struts that there is no cessation of spark at death. Lives end and begin and end and begin. _Life_ remains. Perhaps a whole vorn from now, you will see your friend's spark light up the optics of a Seekerling." Diarwen smiled again, more deeply this time: a vorn was no greater a span of time to a Sidhe than it was to an adult Cybertronian.

"I have learned something else," Optimus said. "If I simply take the time and trouble to perceive a spark, to encompass their reality, it allows me to understand what Gaia found: the desire for the next life's circumstances. That desire is always pure, an urge, it seems to me, from Primus Himself."

"I do not share your link to Primus, of course," Diarwen said. "But it seems to me that when I have the right of a matter from my Lady Brigit, that is a very different feeling to making up my own mind."

"And a better one, at that," Optimus replied. "Now, before I have to embarrass myself and get Burnout's help to leave, I think perhaps we'll go this way."

End Part Thirty-Two


	33. Chapter 33

Part Thirty-Three

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

When they left the astral plane and reawakened in the Temple, Burnout offered energon to Optimus, and a plate of fruit and a glass of milk to Diarwen. They accepted gratefully; the food and drink grounded them, helped them completely return to the physical world.

Burnout asked, "Was your meditation successful, Prime?"

"It was," he replied. "Though it seems the answers we are given are as much those we need as those we sought in the first place."

Burnout nodded. "Such is often the way with dedicated meditations."

"Primus has shown me the way that I must go, but getting there will require study and more meditation. Nothing so involved as this morning, though." He smiled. "My Lady Diarwen, are you ready to depart?"

She returned her plate and cup to Burnout, with a bow of thanks. "That I am."

Optimus had reserved a portion of his energon for the flame, a libation to Primus, then he returned to the hangars, his cohort forming an honor guard. When he arrived, he thanked them all, including the Wreckers in an arm-clasp and a few words each.

Once they were inside their quarters, Optimus asked Diarwen, "What is your schedule like for the rest of the day?"

"I am free until after lunch; I need a short rest before I will be of much use for anything. And yourself?"

"I have a teleconference this morning, but nothing else of importance. I intended to return to our quarters. I can read reports and return email from there, and teleconference from my office."

"Good," she sighed. "I am about ready to join Gaia in a nap."

Their apartment was quiet, warming up but not yet as beastly hot as it would be in the afternoon. Optimus set an internal alarm; he could not be late for his teleconference with Secretary of Defense Panetta.

He was not looking forward to that. While always impeccably polite to a head of state who was the guest of the United States, Panetta wanted what he always wanted—what any SecDef wanted—greater involvement of the Cybertronians in the United States' conflicts. Optimus would have to tread as carefully as he always did to remain impartial while avoiding offense to their host.

He despised political gamesmanship. Still, Primus, and perhaps even Brigit, grant him enough of statecraft to achieve his aims...

Optimus stretched out on the berth and smiled as Diarwen climbed to her usual spot on his chestplates. She curled up with the same evident satisfaction as did Betony Lennox' cat in taking possession of Betony's bed. "Have you decided about your participation in the Beltane celebration?" she asked.

"Not precisely. I have the sense that Primus is laughing at me. If we set aside our ideas of mech and femme genders, and concentrate entirely on the organic concepts of male and female physical forms, it is beyond question that Cybertronians are hermaphroditic. Technically. Any Cybertronian can spark another, and any with the proper equipment can become sparked. And if we were not created with gestation chambers, we all have the potential to have that equipment installed, if we still had the wherewithal to create the mods in the first place. But none of that is of any consequence if the Goddess does not approve. Since one of us must, as you put it, strap on the sword for purposes of this ritual, I believe we should ask Her which of us she prefers to be Her vessel."

Diarwen nodded approval. "And that, I believe, is Her lesson for us. If we seek to worship Her, we do best to seek that path most pleasing to Her. We should also ask if Primus would mind you lending yourself to Her in such a way. In that place beyond our pride we find the perfect love and perfect trust that lead to true union with the Divine."

Optimus promised, "Tonight, we will do so. For now, you should rest, and I, unfortunately, have work to do before my teleconference."

"Poor unfortunate you." Diarwen smiled, and, held in her lover's fields, slid into sleep.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Any rite requires a little planning, and Diarwen and Optimus were planning their mutual meditations while the warm light of a setting sun marched into their window and made itself at home on the sofa with them.

"I can deal with the water if you wish me to," Diarwen said. "It will work either way—a cross-gender strength if I carry it, an intensifying-gender strength if you do."

Optimus smiled. "It will be no problem. I can simply activate my seals. I am actually more worried about sprinkling earth around the circle; I do not wish to get sand in my seams. Perhaps I should make a request to Jazz to shut off the air-circulation devices at work in our quarters for the duration of the ritual."

"See what he can do about the smoke detector? I lived once in an apartment where _thinking_ about lighting a candle was sufficient to set it off."

Jazz, consulted, was happy to give Optimus the codes to shut off and restart the air circulation in their shared living space, but said that the solution to the smoke detectors was far easier: remove the battery, and replace it when finished.

"All right, that is done," said Optimus, placing Diarwen back on the sofa, the battery of the smoke alarm clutched in her hand. "So. You light the incense, and carry it around the circle. Then I sprinkle the sand, Earth I mean, across the area. Then you call Fire to the candle, and carry it around the circle, and I use the bough of juniper to asperge the area for Water."

"Yes, that is perfect. But I wonder," she said, tilting her silver head, "if there are any other acts of purification to be done to make this ritual acceptable to Lord Primus?"

"It is not, strictly speaking, necessary for communion with the First One, but whenever possible we light an energon flame, which serves much the same purpose as the God candle. I have a very small energon burner. Could we use that in place of the God candle on your altar?"

"I think that would be highly appropriate. May I see it?"

He unsubspaced it, a jar approximately the size of her largest altar candleholders, traced with a curvilinear motif picked out in contrasting metal on all four sides. It held perhaps a pint of fluid at most.

She held it, heavy for its weight, and felt Brigit's approval. "That will do perfectly, _Acushla_. Now, will it light from a candle flame?"

"It will if I fill it with my own processed energon, which is best in any case."

Diarwen cocked a silver eyebrow. "That would be very similar to blood magic."

He cocked a browplate right back. "Which I have known you to use, on extremely appropriate occasions."

"That is so. So long as it is one's own blood, given freely and without harm to the donor, I have no objections. Though some have well-thought objections, and those tend to be very strenuous."

He shook his head. "My own energon, given freely and without harm to myself—yes, I believe those would be my caveats as well."

"Very well. I will call the Quarters, and ask Brigit to attend us. You will do the same of Primus just before I light the Goddess candle, and Lord Primus' flame, from the altar candle."

"And then?"

"Then, my love, it will lie in the laps of the gods we serve."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"...to witness, an You will, this rite." Diarwen felt her Lady Brigit arrive: the warmth and kindness, the critical attention to detail. The approval of what they crafted together, she and Optimus, though he was not one of Brigit's, and indeed not one of Mother Earth's. The planet's newly adopted children would require a deeper acquaintance to know well, even for the Ancient Ones, but Diarwen could sense that her Lady Brigit was intrigued with them and liked what she saw.

"...humbly ask of Thee, O First One, attend and instruct Thy creation." Optimus was more aware of the presence of his Deity than he had been in many vorn, since his first days as a postulant mechling in the Temple at Iacon. He felt the encircling fields of that mighty Presence, and felt as safe as a sparkling sheltered by his parent. Those fields unmistakably conveyed curiosity and approval.

Both of them settled into meditation, letting the physical world fade as they turned their consciousness inward, to that sacred space where union with the Divine was to be found.

Optimus had heretofore only suspected that the entire subject of their roles within the Great Rite, and more importantly Optimus' own confusion about his role as Prime, was a source of amusement to Primus. Now he was certain of it; he could sense it in the Deity's fields, much as adults are often benevolently amused by the mistaken ideas that sparklings get into their helms.

He could also feel a strong current of approval. Knowledge came to him on a spark-deep level where mere glyphs were unneeded; Optimus understood that he was to continue in meditation, that something else was to be revealed to him.

His first awareness was the sound of a hammer striking metal, the sure, rhythmic, clear ring that heralded a master at the craft. He was completely unsurprised to see tiny Gaia tagging along beside him, happily skipping along a stony path that was familiar to her.

Optimus knew where he was, one of the myriad narrow paths along the steep canyons within that verge upon the Well of All-Sparks which the Original Six had claimed for their own. It was not Cybertron—there was atmosphere here, and that atmosphere carried the scent of heated metal and the fire of the forge.

The forge was located within a deep cave where a crevice in the ceiling carried off the smoke.

This would be the domain of Solus Prime, the lone femme among the Original Six. The Maker of the group, she had forged mighty artifacts for her brothers: Prima's Star Saber among them.

But there were two femmes at the forge, helms together over a project.

Optimus stared. They did not look alike, their armor differing in both color and style...were those Solus' ornate helm decorations? They were. Who then wore the brilliant green of her Guest's armor?

The shanix dropped. Lady Brigit had chosen to come to him in the guise of a femme of his own species before.

Gaia had no such difficulty. Laughing, she ran toward the femme with the helm kibble, tiny starfish servos lifted to her, and found herself caught up and lifted to a strong shoulder.

"Brother," Solus greeted him, with a smile nearly as wide as Gaia's, the little femme tucked into her collar plating. Optimus went to his knees. "I will take this one to visit with our brothers, so that you may speak privately. My Lady, please consider my home to be Your own for as long as You wish it so."

"My thanks, Solus. Optimus Prime, well met once again."

"My Lady Brigit," Optimus replied, and bowed his helm.

"Do you know," Brigit said thoughtfully, holding a red-hot object close to her optics for critical inspection, "that these new playmates of yours, Optimus, whether human or Sidhe, do not kneel to Me? I thank you for the gesture of respect, but between ourselves, we can dispense with it. You have your work to do on the mortal plane, just as they do, and I Mine here; we are equals in that respect. You kneel to Solus as an ancestor, and that is right and true, but it is not true between us. So up off your kneeplates, mech."

"Diarwen does not kneel to You?" Optimus said, rising, and could not keep the shock out of his vocoder.

"It was a hard habit to break her of; she is quite stubborn," Brigit replied, and brought the green-handled hammer down upon hot metal.

His helm went back. "She is stubborn to _You_?"

Laughing optics met his. "We are speaking of the same person? One Diarwen ni Gilthanel? A silver-haired, silver-eyed Sidhe woman? Bears a weapon as 'twere an extension of her will? If that is the one, I do not think it possible to separate her from her stubbornness. That formidable will is as much her element as Fire."

Optimus laughed. "That is true, Lady."

The demands of hot metal on the forge came between them, and Optimus, knowing without being told what was needed, set himself to the bellows. They worked for a timeless time, and then the Lady said, "You had some questions."

"Yes, Lady. I am Primus' creature, as Lady Diarwen thinks of herself as belonging to You. I was somewhat concerned that He would not view our interaction positively."

The hammer rang and the tongs turned the object. "We spoke extensively on that subject," the Lady Brigit said, half her mind obviously on the work in servo. She continued to pound and turn, pound and turn, then laid the object back in the forge, and nodded to Optimus to man the bellows. "Our reasoning was this: each of the races who worship Us comes from a different planet, and on each of those worlds, a different method of procreation obtains. Here, there is a physical melding of the male and female to produce new life; the persons who do such melding do not vary their sexual physicality, remaining genetically male or female throughout their lives."

Optimus noted the color of the flame, and gave it more air. "The humans tell me that some among them are not comfortable in the bodies they were born into, and modify them to more closely reflect their soul."

Brigit nodded. 'Yes. My children are beginning to move beyond their bodies; though they cannot yet bear children if born male, nor sire them if born female. Primus tells me that body modification will never be necessary for your people."

"That is true. All my life I have been a warrior, and expressed myself as a mech. Particularly in the sight of Your people, it seemed best that my expression remain so. We have among us warriors who express themselves as femme, but they are neither lesser warriors nor less femme for doing so. And with the right modifications, any mech or femme could become a carrier, a person who gives birth."

"Any member of your species can perform either role. What lovely economy of design.—Enough."

She pulled the object, glowing red-hot, out of the forge, and began to pound and turn, pound and turn. "We compared notes, as it were, and We are both intrigued by the people who worship the other. For my part, I am very pleased that you are willing to make this offering to Me. I wish very much to learn of your species. I believe I speak accurately of your Lord when I say that it seems He is equally fascinated by species which do not transform at all, but rather specialize endlessly. —Do you know, Prime, that it is through mortals that We Who are not such learn of the universe?"

At her nod, he began again to pump the bellows, and had to raise his voice to be heard. "I have heard that speculation made, but I have more questions than answers about the nature of the gods. I would learn that which You deign to teach me."

"'Tis wisdom indeed to know that you do not know," she said, and he heard approval in her voice. Brigit placed the object back in the fire, and watched it heat for a few moments before she spoke again.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen knew where she was almost the instant she began to meditate. Only Ireland had ever smelled so.

Ireland, in a pre-industrial spring. She opened her eyes, and the deep green of that land enfolded her vision.

The gentle roll of the hills showed no path at all, nor any wall or fence. The forest that man had later beaten back had no such limits on its growth in this place of memory, and there was little open ground.

Diarwen rose from tailor's seat, and walked west, toward the Summerland.

She occasionally beheld deer, at a distance; once a wolf trotted by, carefully keeping well out of arrow range. The giant elk that once populated the green isle showed her only rustles in the underbrush and a flash of brown coat at well over Diarwen's own height; at this time of year the males' antlers were still in velvet, and shed tufts of their winter coat decorated many a holly and bramble. Birds intent on building nests were harvesting much of that.

When a path, narrow, beaten dirt, manifested itself, she took it. An animal trail, from the looks of it, it did not head directly west, but meandered.

Uphill, downhill, through glade and open patches, flanked occasionally by a sprawl of wild roses through whose fragrance she quite enjoyed walking, occasionally the unintended recipient of birdsong, Diarwen followed the path. When it led into a small hollow surrounded by very large trees, made not merely private but secret by large mounds of blackberry bushes, she paused, and her hand went to her sword.

"Your Lady taught you well," said voice to one side of her, and she spun, the sword leading.

A dark-haired high-cheekboned Sidhe with intense blue eyes, wearing ornate blue metal armor, straightened off the tree he had been lounging against, and laughed, a deep, truly amused belly laugh.

For a single, incandescent moment, Diarwen thought that she was again in the presence of her lost love. But despite the general resemblance to Orthelion, this was not he: this one's hair was not straight as Orthelion's had been, rather a riot of curls, reminding her of the ornate helm decorations of Solus Prime and her brothers.

As realization struck her, she dropped to one knee. "My Lord Primus," she said, and bowed her head.

"Well, not yours, no. There is no need to kneel to me, femme."

Diarwen raised her head. "What form of respect would You have me show You?" she said, astonishment leaving her tone barely polite.

"A lowering of that silver head should do well," Primus said, with a quirk of one corner of his mouth. "You had questions to ask of Me?"

"I do not know that I had questions, my Lord. I wished, I think, to be sure that I was appropriate in Your eyes as the Consort to Your Prime."

He gestured to her to walk with him, and they moved deeper into the silent glade. "If not, I would have spoken up long before now. Optimus is quite fond of you, and to ask him to cease the relationship—I would not embark upon such unless you bid fair to turn him from My path. Far from it, you have assisted him along it. No, my lady Diarwen, you will do well. Your people, the humans, and Mine have no difference of any real importance between them, despite the fact that two are housed in flesh and one in metal. Your Pretenders proved that once and for all, I believe."

"There are many among the humans who would resent that proof, my Lord."

"Silly persons, but of too great a power to be totally ignored. They had their counterparts among my people when Nova took consorts from among the other races that he encountered. They wanted to think that Cybertronians were somehow uniquely favored in the universe. It will not be easy for them to accept that one born to such a 'lesser race' can become fully Cybertronian," he said, and briefly cupped a rose to his face, inhaling deeply. "Still, my lady, you have My assurance that the Pretenders, even to the youngest of them, are among My charges. Your Lady Brigit and I have had many long discussions, and I look forward to working with you both."

They had by this time reached another clearing a little larger than the first. Primus plucked a single perfect wild rose from a heaped mound of thorns, and presented it to her. "Our time together is almost over, Diarwen. I have but one more gift for you."

"I will accept it gratefully, my Lord."

"I do not think so," he said, and vanished.

Diarwen was struck with a sense of loss and guilt and grief so powerful it nearly took her from her feet.

She endured it. She had lived through Orthelion's death. This was...not as bad, somehow. More distant. When her breath was reliably steady, she realized that the grief and the guilt were not her own, but those of someone else. She could not quite put a finger on whose, though she knew the acquaintance to be lengthy.

Then she was back in their quarters, and a single wild rose lay wilting in her lap.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen returned to herself more quickly than did Optimus. He was still seated in lotus posture, eyes closed when she rose quietly, and brewed herself a pot of tea, to enjoy with a few organic crackers, some cheese, and an apple.

When she felt herself grounded, she glanced at the plate of oil cakes and rust sticks she had assembled for him earlier, along with a liter or so of energon; they sat beside one another within his reach.

She set herself to watch, and considered the last of Primus' gifts to her as she put the wild rose in water on her altar. By the time Optimus' optics opened, she had gone no further toward identifying that person, had learned only that it was an engulfing, soul-eating grief she could not bear to let touch her.

Optimus smiled at her and turned toward the refreshments. He was rarely hungry after he finished meditation, but he was sharply aware of a need to ground, to reconnect fully with a physical world he had stepped beyond to do what he needed.

Diarwen herself could feel the difference in him, although it was very difficult to put into words: Optimus, of a certainty, but an Optimus who should not be asked to take a meeting with Lennox, for instance.

It was at this point eight-thirty of a Thursday night. Optimus drank half the energon, and nibbled a few rust sticks, then an oil cake. "Well, my lady," he said to Diarwen, as he felt the food ground him, "we have some rehearsals to undertake."

"That we do," she said, and rose, smiling. She donned her sword, and brought her chalice from the sideboard in which she kept sacred objects. She had no dedicated athame, as that was a tradition created among humans millennia after she had begun to carry a blade.

The Sidhe on Earth were a nomadic folk who moved often to avoid overhunting an area; not a lifestyle that lent itself to the ownership of too many possessions. She had never kept a second knife dedicated to ritual use. Rather, in Diarwen's tradition, all her ritual tools were made part of sacred space in the process of casting the circle, purified for the duration of the ceremony.

In the Beltane rite with her circle the following night, it was to be Optimus who held the cup, and Diarwen, wearing her sword, who plunged the athame into it: the sacred union of male and female enacted symbolically. Optimus was six times Diarwen's height.

"Could I lift you?" he said. "Have you step onto my palm and raise you to the chalice?"

"It would not be ideal," Diarwen replied. "The union should take place upon the body of the Goddess, that is, the surface of the earth."

"I could kneel," Optimus said, and did so. If he held the chalice almost at the level of the floor, Diarwen could sink the athame into it.

But she said, "I mislike that. Neither of us should kneel to the other."

"I could lift you to a niche on Buzzard Rock I know of."

"Then my circle could not see."

They stared at one another, frustrated. Optimus had the last oil cake, and Diarwen another cup of tea.

"Roller is too much a separate individual for you to inhabit him for the purpose of the ritual," she said.

"Yes."

"Some fey species can change size at will. It is a pity that one of us does not have that talent!"

"I can subspace some of my mass, but not enough to make the necessary difference."

The oil cakes gone, he deposited their crumbs in the trash can, and they moved to the sofa. Diarwen, as usual, made herself comfortable on his shoulder. Their size difference was something that they rarely thought about any more; they took it for granted as they did sunrise. Diarwen stared out the window, and thought; Optimus did much the same.

"The gods did not consider it a problem beyond our ability to solve," she said eventually.

"I do have one more idea. I do not know how acceptable it would be—but this is a _symbolic_ rite."

"Yes? Do go on."

"I could scan the chalice and project it as part of my holoform."

Diarwen looked taken aback.

"If that is acceptable to Primus and Lady Brigit, of course," he amended.

Diarwen said slowly, "I think I need some more information on the holoform." She leapt down to find a seat on his kneeplates.

Optimus said, "I will project it immediately in front of myself, and scan your chalice to add to it. You will place the athame in the scanned chalice, and my point of presence will be holding it, as yours holds the athame."

"But how, if it is a light projection, can you be present in that?"

"I will create the projection within my fields. At the heart of the matter, is it not the interaction of our fields—our auras—which we offer to the gods, symbolically though it may be?"

"That is true..."

Diarwen's fields changed; most of them were now serene, but still one tiny area remained unsettled. He understood suddenly that she had no doubts about the validity of the ritual they proposed, yet something remained to prevent her full acquiescence to his proposal. He said, "What is it, beloved?"

Diarwen blinked, and met his optics. She drew a deep breath. "While I find your human-appearing holoform pleasing, can you project a holoform in your own likeness? You see, it is _you _whom I love, and it is that energy I would bring to the ritual and to the gods."

Optimus blinked. "Yes. I can do that."

End Part Thirty-Three


	34. Chapter 34

Part Thirty-Four

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen ni Gilthanel had, she thought with satisfaction, unknotted a very tangled problem with this particular translation, one of the poet Vector's most allegorical poems. She realized she really should have two versions: one for the poetry itself, exquisitely beautiful as it was, and one with the extensive footnotes needed to understand Cybertronian culture. She wrote briefly on a post-it note ("send to Carly after Milestrina?") and attached it to her work just as her cellphone began to vibrate.

Well, thank the Goddess that hadn't happened while she was sorting out "The Bonding of the Primes," because if it had she _still _wouldn't understand that passage! "_Is Diarwen._"

"Lennox here," said her brother-by-choice. "Betony's turned up. Got a moment free?"

Diarwen felt herself smile. "For Betony, always. I shall be right there."

"My quarters," he said, and disconnected.

Betony and Jaime's rig was indeed taking up most of the space in the visitor's parking, and Diarwen identified a tallish dark-haired man as Jaime. He had a leash in one hand with a large, scarred Rottweiler on the other end of it, and a plastic bag over his free hand, waiting for the dog to do its business. Nevertheless, they managed a greeting hug, and the Rottweiler introduced itself to Diarwen with enthusiasm and a marked lack of restraint.

She and Jaime would have gotten to the Lennox' quarters a lot more quickly if Shad and Shankie had not turned up at that point...and more quickly than that if Steeljaw had not bounded up, grinning all over himself. Shankie and the Rottweiler exchanged noses, the Rottie wriggling with pleasure, Shankie and Steelie did the same, and then the Rottie did the same to Steeljaw, although this required a more lengthy nasal investigation, as Cybertronian "dogs" were beyond the Rottie's experience. The larger Earth dog decided that if this strange creature wished to pretend it was a dog, he would go along with this pleasant fiction. After Shankie and the Cybertronian exchanged play bows, and the Cybertronian offered one to the Rottweiler, they began some serious doggishness. A pack of two was fun, but a pack of three was exponentially more amusing.

Shad approached. "I'll take 'em to the tennis courts and let them romp a bit if it's okay with you," he said to Diarwen. "Where shall I bring them back?"

"To Colonel Lennox' quarters, please," Diarwen said. "Jaime Anderson, this is Shad White, who is owned by the border collie Shankie. Shad, Jaime is the partner of the Colonel's sister Betony, my dear friend."

"Owned by the Rottie," Shad said with a brief smile, shaking hands. "Nice to meet you. What's the big guy's name?"

"It's 'Rotten,'" Jaime said in his unexpectedly deep voice. "Best if I introduce you to him formally, although he's a lot more likely to lick you to death than attack you."

This accomplished, Shad and the three dogs went in the direction of the tennis court. "Nice kid," Jaime said. "What is that other creature?"

"I guess you would say that he is a Cybertronian dog."

Jaime grinned down at her. "You have the most interestin' acquaintances," he said.

"I cannot argue with you there," she replied, smiling. "How did your dog get the name of 'Rotten'?"

"We adopted him after he was seized in a raid on a dog-fightin' scum's house," Jaime said. "You see his scars?"

"They are not easy to miss," Diarwen said truthfully. The big dog didn't just have the white hairs that often mark a scar, he had had divots of flesh removed: he looked like he'd had acne, quite a bad case of acne, as a teenager.

Jaime said, "He was used as a bait dog, to teach the other dogs to fight. Nicest guy in the world, no aggression at all, brains to match. But he's a registered Rottweiler, looks it. One of the kids in our neighborhood came up and asked us if he was a 'Rottenweiler.' Poor guy's been 'Rotten' ever since."

Diarwen laughed, and they reached the Lennoxes' quarters.

The Lennoxes had left the door to their quarters open, the screen door only in place; Diarwen knew this to be base code for "Knock and come on in if you're expected." She knocked, and they entered.

The Lennoxes _en masse_ were in the back yard, with Amaranth and Annabelle making gleeful use of the swingset beyond the patio. Diarwen winced as the shrieks reached a crescendo, but just then Will said, "Ladies, ladies! Decorum, if you please?"

Diarwen heard Annabelle ask Amaranth, "What's a decorum?" but just then Betony saw her, leapt from her chair, which would have sent it over backward if her brother's reflexes weren't combat-ready, and enveloped the taller woman in a hug.

"Oh, it is good to see you, Betony," Diarwen said, hugging back.

"I've missed you too," Betony replied. Then, astonished, she put the other woman back from her, and looked up into the silver eyes. "You have your magic back!"

"Aye, and a welcome change that is!" Diarwen said, laughing. "Now, are you here for the evening, I hope? We begin our Beltane celebration in a few hours, and welcome you will be. If you help me prepare for it, I shall tell you all about things."

"Oh, yes, I'd love that. We got in to make a Vegas delivery a day ahead of schedule, so we're deadheading for the night. We pick up a load in Lake Havasu City tomorrow."

"That's not too far," Will Lennox said, approving. "But the place is just a tourist trap, so what the heck are you picking up? The London Bridge?"

Betony laughed. "No! A lawyer's office is on the docket as owner's agent, so I think it's probably somebody's estate, their stuff, you know."

"Geez," said Will, who didn't actually know if he approved of Betony's chosen career or not. "Where are you taking it?"

"'Bout four miles from our house," Jaime said laconically. "Handy. We just drop the trailer, an' watch 'em unload it."

"Yeah, like that works out well," Betony laughed. "Last time it was a pair of people slightly older'n dirt, and their very pregnant granddaughter-in-law, so we helped 'em out."

"Where was grandson, then?" Will said.

"Afghanistan, if I remember right,' Jaime said. "Wa'n't no big deal, just a little luggin'."

Diarwen, who happened to remember Betony's description of this transaction ("Ninety-seven frickin' degrees out there, no shade for miles, and fifty gazillion boxes in the trailer. Some of them must have been lead-lined, D, they were so heavy! We weren't going to let two elders and a preggie deal with that"), smiled and said nothing. She had long ago realized that Jaime was a keeper, and was profoundly grateful for that.

Will cocked his head as the two women sat down and said, "'Our' house? Got some news to share?"

"Jaime moved in," she said, with a look at her brother that told him if he had any complaints about that, he was cordially welcome to keep them to himself.

He gave her an irrepressible grin and no complaints, along with a heaping helping of big-brother teasing. "You aren't pregnant, are you?"

"What? No!" she spluttered. "If you must know, Jaime's brother got a job out of Atlanta. There was no sense continuing to pay rent on their apartment when we're hardly ever there."

Will smiled. Yeah, right: it was a totally logical decision. Still, he was glad that his wild-child sister, the freest spirit in the whole family, was setting some roots at last. "Hey, Bet, I meant to ask you, are the Brightons taking care of the horses when you're on the road?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I hired Matt Brighton as a regular caretaker for the place. He's been doing it anyway, and it didn't seem fair to keep imposing."

"Let me know what you're paying him and I'll kick in for half," Will said. "It's probably less than I'd pay to board Anna's pony at a commercial stable, and it keeps the horses at home. Can't do better than that."

"If he marries Prudence Cameron, I thought about offering to let them live in the carriage house. What do you think?"

"Ironhide and Chromia and Evanon will be coming back with us the next time we take leave. Would that freak them out, do you think?"

"Nothing freaks them out," Betony replied. "They'll get along fine."

Will nodded decisively, and Sarah had to deal with being unmercifully turned on by her husband in public (sorta) _yet again_. "Then I'm fine with having someone trustworthy living there full time and keeping an eye on the place."

"Good!"

The conversation moved on.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Well, that," said Betony to Jaime, "looks like a success to me."

"Yep," he replied, an arm around her shoulders. They sat next to the event's organizer, Sarah Lennox, who was herself relaxed.

"It's go time," she had explained earlier. "If I screwed it up somewhere, it's either too late to fix it, or there'll be some running around at high speed later. In either case, there's nothing for me to do right now, and I'm happy with that. I haven't put my butt down on anything since six this morning."

There was as yet no running around at high speed. A mixture of Cybertronians, Pretenders, and humans danced around the Maypole, winding it in ribbons. Most of the humans were under ten years of age, though most of the Cybertronians were not. The Tiny Trine were the exception; they already stood four to five feet in height, and towered over the human children.

But then, so did the Pretenders. A Pretender took position behind each line leader: the circle had chosen Chip and Mikaela for this honor. The leader, a Pretender of the opposite gender, three kids and another Pretender, ad infinitum. Fortunately, they'd run out of kids before they ran out of Pretenders.

When Milestrina, who had learned the dance by watching it on YouTube, sent the command, the Pretender following the line leader raised his or her ribbon, and all the kids did too.

Ideally. The other Pretenders were there to see that it actually happened, but so far they had not been needed.

Raf and Juanito were in the line behind Chip. On meeting, they'd shaken hands, shared a grin, and not spoken since. But Raf's participation meant that all the children who wished to dance could be accommodated. Of course Juanito, Miko, and Junior Epps all lent a hand when needful, and Jack Darby was watchful from the sidelines.

A troop of mummers made the dance music: Evanon and big Bart, who liked to be involved in every child-centered activity on base.

The lines passed each other with giggles; Diarwen, following Chip, could feel Lady Brigit's pleasure.

The ribbons shortened, and pulled the dancers to the pole. WIth a grin, Milestrina sent the "Stop" command, and the Maypole dance was finished.

Diarwen applied a buckle-and-strap to the ends of the ribbons, and the Maypole rite was completed in symbol and in true.

Amaranth skipped over to Annabelle, and took her hand. "Wasn't that fun?" she said. "It worked just right, too, with all the opposing nodes and everything."

Raf turned to her and began a conversation just as Will Lennox shouted, "Okay, kids, the barbeque's ready! Take your parents and your partners too! We've got hamburgers and hot dogs, and ice cream for dessert!"

Amaranth, though, was far more interested in opposing nodes than hot dogs, and she, Obsidian, and Raf fell deeply into mathematical conversation. Jack Darby, Annabelle's crush, approached, and to her delight bore her off to the party.

Diarwen returned from thanking the littles for their work, and flopped down beside Jaime and Betony.

Who said, "Well, at least this time you didn't have to cut the dancers free at the end."

Diarwen threw her head back and laughed. "I had forgotten all about that! And those were adults, as well."

"Well, sorta. Between that guy who had the crush on you and that girl who had the crush on both of us, I don't think I'd apply the word 'adult' to the proceedings."

"True, one would not," said Diarwen. "Not when it was those two who..." Her voice trailed off.

"Screwed it up," Jaime said, helpfully. "And left you to unscrew it."

Diarwen chuckled. "Aye, and it did take a lot of unscrewing! I could hear the Lady Brigit laughing and slapping her knees, and was surprised no one else could." She rose. "Will you join us for the Belfire? I must see what the teenagers have made of it, though as Jack Darby and Shad White are running things, I should be very surprised to be needed."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"I've never seen so many cats," Sarah Lennox said with wide eyes.

Cats, dogs, birds, caged pets, Cybertronians, Pretenders, humans, and one human boy raised by Sidhe: a very large variety of beings walked, ran, giggled, or were led or got carried, between the Belfires.

The fires themselves were healthy blazes, fueled by desert deadwood, dry after a winter on the ground and ready to burn. Two of the Pretenders had accepted temporary mods for fire extinguishment; the other base teenagers had accepted the responsibility for building the fires, and now beamed with pride of accomplishment.

The Lennox family had been the first to go between the flames, the little girls laughing with excitement, Lennox his imperturbable gregarious self, and the other base personnel followed, Cybertronians interspersed among them.

And right after the mechlings went through, the Belfires became the stuff of legend.

Two-thirds of the Tiny Trine arced up into a loop and flew in a large circle over to their sister. Before either Barricade or Flareup could intervene, Skysong lifted her servos, her brothers caught them, and skimming over the fires, low and fast enough to frighten cats, dogs, caged birds, and all the humans present, they flew their sister through the Belfires. She shrieked with pleasure and surprise, and everyone and everything else screamed in fright.

Barricade put his helm into his servos. "How fast can we get to Australia, do you think?" he said to Flareup.

Who laughed heartily, as did Chromia, on his other side, and Ironhide, who actually forgot himself far enough to grin.

Chromia said, "Cade. This is normal life, in peacetime. Isn't it wonderful?"

"Is it?" said Barricade. "Excuse me a minute."

The Tiny Trine were still buzzing the crowd, though at a higher altitude, and said crowd was _not helping_, in Barricade's estimation. They craned their necks after his recalcitrant brood, they shouted, they clapped, they cheered. ::You three! Get down here _right now_!:: he sent, and grumbling, they alit.

The flight was over, but the retelling had just begun. The mummers, augmented now by Betony on bodhran and Diarwen with a pennywhistle, began to improvise a song titled "The Flight of the Three" on the spot.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

By 2030 hours, the party at the Belfires was in full, noisy swing. The band finished their last set and, while the dance floor cleared and people crowded around the punch bowl, Flareup took over the sound booth from Jazz and hardlined to the console to send it her config file. She glanced over at Barricade, who was keeping a close optic on the Tiny Trine. It was quite useful that he possessed four optics rather than the usual two. After their earlier escapades they had settled down somewhat, stayed mostly on the ground. One turn at buzzing right over bots' helms, startling the much smaller humans, was enough.

Flareup smiled. She had never expected to live to see the end of the war, much less to find herself with a family at its...not its end, not yet. But a protracted peace seemed possible.

She saw that the group who were going to Beltane circle gathered near the trail to Buzzard Rock. They slipped away by twos and threes, making neither a secret nor a statement of their destination.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

When Diarwen arrived, among the last of them, Prowl, as their Summoner, had everything ready. The circle was laid out in stones, with room for the humans and smallest bots to pass between. They were small enough for the rest of the bots to step over.

Those same stones, randomly arrayed, had provided good seats to listen to Diarwen's lectures during their morning study sessions. Around them, several areas of smooth combed sand marked their training ground.

It reminded Prowl of Master Yoketron's dojo. Not that they looked at all the same. Yoketron's school had been located in a traditional Cybertronian rustic hall, not a patch of open-air desert. But it felt the same. Yoketron, he thought, would have been at home here.

Diarwen had encouraged Chip and Mikaela to officiate at this ceremony, but they declined, for equal parts reproductive (Mikaela) and religious (Chip) reasons.

Diarwen could not argue with that. Officiating at a Beltane ritual was just _asking_ to become pregnant for a priestess of childbearing age—if, of course, facilitating activities took place. Which they usually did; there was something about the holy day itself which seemed to demand it.

Had she had a lover of either Sidhe or human descent, she would have declined herself.

But she did not. Not merely because she was, in her present situation, proof against an inconvenient pregnancy, but because her lover would hold the chalice this evening, and she herself wear the sword. Smiling, she buckled it into place.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Later, Diarwen could remember that casting the circle and calling the quarters had gone smoothly. Often, she had no memory of a ceremony; the need to be intensely in the moment seemed to take up all the space used for writing to memory (a fact Ratchet could have confirmed for her. At least, a fact in regard to his own species). But this one, she remembered quite clearly.

She also remembered that it would have been nice to have had just a bit of warning.

Diarwen was more used to having a deity usurp the proceedings of a ritual for His or Her own ends than was Optimus, though it had happened to him a time or two as well. She, moreover, had the experience at the Battle of Chicago of channeling more energy than her body could bear.

Still, when things abruptly took a turn for the weird, as Jazz put it later, she was taken by surprise.

Optimus presented the chalice to her, and she sank the blade Wheeljack had presented to her into it.

An energy she had never before experienced seemed to move into, over, and through her entire body, and then permeated her mind as well.

And last, terrifying, it moved into that part of Diarwen which was always Diarwen: her soul.

She managed to disengage long enough to check their circle: still there, still strong. Then the process claimed her, ruthless in its speed and power.

In a change that took no time at all Diarwen could see into the depths of Optimus' spark. A finger of light spread between them, curled around that spark; Diarwen had no doubt from the burning, purifying, exhilarating feelings in her head that it curled around her own soul, as well.

A voice that was both Brigit and Primus, strength, wisdom, and love beyond mortal understanding, spoke gently to both of them. "Is this truly what you want, for this lifetime and for all others to follow?"

Neither Optimus nor Diarwen was any stranger to facing their own desires and motivations, but up until now that had always been a question of self-denial, of sacrifice for tribe and clan. Now, they were being asked only if this was their true will; for the first time in many vorn, both were free to reach out and take what they wanted.

Their answers were an all-consuming explosion of _yes._

The gods took them to a place outside space and time where a soul could not be distinguished from a spark, where there was no darkness and no fear, only the life-flame: a Belfire of ungraspable proportion. They danced in it together, and were made one.

One, where before there had been two.

And then, suddenly, they were back in their circle, staring at one another and the dagger Wheeljack had made for Diarwen hung within the cup between them, its point barely engaging the illusory water within.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Oh _fumes_," Jazz said. He commed Ratchet first, whose reaction was more profane than his own had been, and then Mirage. Last, he sent a message to Rodi, one of Raf's guides that day. ::Will you take all the humans to the Belfires?::

::Sure thing,:: sent Rodi, who was no dope. ::Get somebody to end things here first, though?::

"Apparently, resonating sparks will bond even across species," Prowl said, his optics still fixed on the main celebrants of the ritual.

"Puts Nova Prime to shame. Now we've got to cope with it." Jazz raised his voice, said, "Betony! Can you take up the circle?"

"Yes," Will Lennox' sister said calmly. She cut her way into the circle, sealed the barrier after herself, and made reverence to the quarters and the gods present therein on her way to its center. Once there she thanked the Goddess and the God for their attendance, and heard faint laughter as she did so. One does not dismiss beings of such power, and so she said merely, "Stay if you will, go an you must," using an old form of "if" in the second phrase. She felt those powers recede.

She squared her shoulders and said gently to Diarwen, whose eyes were still locked to Optimus' optics, "I am taking your sword, Diarwen."

Her touch grounded Diarwen slightly, and the Sidhe said faintly, "Yes, that's best." She did not move or take her eyes from Optimus' projection, and stayed within his EM field.

Betony wore the sword to close the quarters Diarwen had opened, aware all the while of the buzz of power in her hand. Diarwen's sword was not an enchanted weapon; the power was Diarwen's own, transferred to the mithril blade in millennia of bearing it.

Betony was rather glad to fasten the belt about her friend's slim waist once more. That energy was prickly, and she did not want to think about how much blood the sword had drunk over the centuries.

Then she closed the quarters Optimus had opened, and without sword or wand, needing neither, she walked the circle widdershins, taking up the boundary energy.

Last, Betony thanked and dismissed the company, and the Beltane ritual was complete. Rodi began shepherding the humans along, but was grateful to hand that task over to Jack Darby and Evanon.

Almost the moment the last of the humans faded from sight, Mirage arrived. "What do you need?" he said to Jazz, and then his attention was drawn to Diarwen and the Prime. "Oh. To their quarters?"

"Yes," Jazz said. "You got any issues with that?"

Mirage snorted. "If Primus doesn't, I won't bother, _paisan_. What is the code?"

Jazz sent it. Optimus, grounding himself slightly, stopped projecting his holoform and the chalice. He picked Diarwen up and placed her on his pauldron just as Jazz extinguished all the lights used to illuminate the circle, and Mirage generated his invisibility shield over as much of Optimus as the shield could reach. Optimus' shins and lower thighs were still visible, but he was joined by Hot Rod, who said with a smile, "Camouflage?"

"Thanks, Rodi," Mirage said.

To a casual observer, Rodi and Mirage walked toward the hangar building together. To an astute one, they had one too many sets of legs between them: though as Rodi matched his stride to Optimus' longer ones, only a _very_ astute observer would have noted that.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Ratchet waited at the door to Optimus' quarters, and to the surprise of all four persons present, visible or not, he wasn't fuming.

It was the medic who shut the door behind the spy and the Prime candidate, after thanking them. He turned back to the sofa on which the Prime and the Sidhe femme had arranged themselves, grateful he wouldn't have to pull them off the berth first.

::Congratulations,:: he sent, acid dripping from his tone, to Optimus. ::Once again you have exceeded expectations, and even Nova Prime's accomplishments.::

Optimus refused to give him a reply; Diarwen, aware that something was amiss between him and Ratchet, glared at the medic.

"There's a standard lecture I give the newly-bonded, and I don't see much reason to alter it," Ratchet said to them, still tart. "You two ready?"

"Aye," Diarwen said.

Optimus sent a glyph of attention.

"All right. New bonds are fragile. They cannot be broken; nothing can do that. If you have buyer's remorse, _get over it. _What they can do is shift off center so that one side of the bond is stronger than the other. That is not a good thing. There's a constant flow of energy in the bond, so it needs to be balanced to keep one of you from creating a low-level energy drain on the other. Ideally, it will zero out from orn to orn.

"You need privacy and proximity for a few joor to let the bond settle. That means I don't want to see you out of quarters except at meals for the first two full days. You can have visitors if you want them for the two days following, but unless the place is burning down around our audials, let Prowl and Lennox deal with everything that they possibly can.

"As the bond settles, with a Cybertronian pair, we would expect to see certain well-documented effects. You should always have an idea, direction and range, where the other is. You will be aware of each other's emotional state. Diarwen, are those things normal for bonded Sidhe pairs?"

The Sidhe, whose body language toward Optimus was exactly what a human psychologist would hope to see in this situation, said, "Yes. And if we are not seers already, we tend to develop a very limited form of precognition that warns us of immediate danger to our soulmate. We know that it is precognitive in nature because the partner is not necessarily aware of their own jeopardy. It is a matter of self-preservation."

"Yes. I don't need to tell you what happens when one partner in a bond deactivates. We went through that with Prowl and Jazz. From now on, you both need to stop and think whenever you get it in your processor to do something heroic—Diarwen's a survivor, and hopefully, Optimus, you will pick that up from her. You, both of you, can no longer risk only your own life anymore, and there is nowhere that either of you can put the other that is safer than your own location. Even if you'd let each other do that, which I view as very nearly at the limits of improbability."

The newly-bonded pair looked at one another, and blushed or radiated embarrassment as their physical natures required.

Ratchet was pleased, and continued. "Try to remember to talk out loud, especially when there are other people around. You don't need to be those spacy bondeds who lose track of reality outside their bond. It can happen."

Both of them nodded, having known both soulmates and sparkbonded couples who were like that.

"It isn't possible to close your bond off completely, but you can learn to mute it when you need to put all your attention on a matter at hand. Once your bond completely settles, remember that's about four days away, practice muting it so that you will each recognize when the other has their side of the bond muted.

"I've never had anything stronger than cohort bonds, much less a sparkbond, but if you have questions that I can't answer, Prowl and Jazz or Ironhide and Chromia will be available. Sides and Sunny are not sparkbonded but a split spark; as well, half that spark is the Pit of a practical joker. Don't ask them questions, and don't listen to them if they volunteer information."

Optimus said, "Certainly" at the same time as Diarwen said, "Certainly not."

Ratchet chose to interpret both as alternate forms of "Yes, healer." He went on to the next item on his agenda: "What are you going to tell the humans? What do you want us to say?"

Optimus considered. "If those close to us here on base ask questions, we will answer them honestly as the subject arises, but I think I would prefer you to refer them to us; let them know that they have a four-day wait. Beyond that, I see no need to bring it up, however, especially with anyone who is not already well acquainted with us."

Diarwen nodded. She was a private person in any case. To her, it was a personal subject, not something she cared to announce to the world or discuss with strangers. With luck, it would be some time before their enemies realized a bond between them existed.

Ratchet sent Optimus a couple of files for him to read and explain to Diarwen. "Prime Consort, you will have to tell us if there is anything we need to know regarding a Sidhe involved in such a bond which is different from the information contained in the files I just sent Optimus."

"I will do so, Ratchet. Thank you."

The medic said, "You're welcome," and excused himself. He did stay long enough to enjoy the blaze of emotion from within, but after that, being a kind person (who would have denied that), he left the new bondeds to their enjoyment.

Besides, he had some business to transact with one Chip Chase.

Chase, located after some difficulty out in the desert, was also reinforcing a pair-bond. If Ratchet's sensors were not in need of adjustment, that couple would shortly require counseling of another kind entirely.

He shrugged. His business, welcome as he thought it would be, would have to wait.

End Part Thirty-Four


	35. Chapter 35

Part Thirty-Five

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Lennox had set the adult curfew at 0100 for the night. That would give everyone a chance for a few hours' sleep before they had to report for duty the next morning.

Diarwen stirred as bots trooped into the hangar, and various doors opened and closed. She had not been sleeping long, and the previous day had been...eventful. Optimus sent a warm wave of love/peace/contentment through their new bond, and felt it returned, with a side order of annoyance at the noise. Then she settled back into sleep.

Optimus was thankful that their suite in the Cliff House was almost ready. The walls in Hangar B were thin, and did nothing to conceal their fields; bots all had to keep their fields pulled in close if they wanted privacy, or else be sure a privacy screen was activated. Moreover, there was no way that several tons of metal could move about in that small space quietly, especially after a few cubes of high grade had made the rounds. The thick stone walls of the Cliff House would be much more comfortable.

Many of the bots passing by would be a little the worse for wear when second joor came around at its usual pace; the same was likely true of the base's humans. But for now, it was a pleasant sort of muzziness. There were no angry drunks in the lot, and they were all settling into recharge. After a last scan of his sleeping consort, Optimus allowed oblivion to creep over him too.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Circle had been cancelled for the next morning, fortunately, because no one was in any condition to drag themselves out at 0530 that Saturday.

As the base began its day, no one was in a state of mind to make noise. Everyone who could was sleeping in, and those who were on duty did not want to hear any noise, including their own.

Diarwen was awakened after first light by a swelling tide of warm energy flowing in the land, mirroring the warmth in her own heart chakra. She smiled and basked in it, until a far-off distant rumble intruded.

The unfamiliar sound wakened Optimus as well. He booted up quickly—much more quickly, Diarwen realized, than usual. She found a good place to hold onto his chestplate, not sure at all that he wouldn't bolt off the berth. But he caught himself before doing that, even as one servo came around to brace her.

"What in Primus' name—?"

"Thunder, I do believe."

He relaxed, or at least his cables lost their tension. "The summer rains are early this year. Normally we would not expect them for another three to four orn."

"Aye. Are you all right?"

"Yes, beloved, and I am sorry to so rudely awaken you. Thunder is a relatively new phenomenon for me. The sound was close enough to an explosion to cause me to fail over to my emergency fast-boot sequence."

"I was already awake. I am sorry, but I do not understand what you just said. Do you mean, boot up, in the same sense as a non-living computer?"

"Yes, exactly so. Remember that the technology behind those computers was derived from study of Megatron while he was a prisoner of Sector 7. Computers are like simplistic versions of our processors. They operate very similarly, in general terms. Our spark memory is analogous to a computer's BIOS. When we awaken from recharge, it boots up the operating system contained in our memory. Think of each Cybertronian as running a different version of the same original operating system, highly modified for our individual frame type, modifications and function. Normally, as my OS comes online, it checks all my sensors and gives me a very detailed picture of my surroundings, before I regain the ability to move. However, I do have passive sensors that are monitored by a subprocessor at all times. When they detected the thunder, it fell within the parameters of a possible explosion. My normal boot sequence failed, and I booted up under combat ready conditions."

Diarwen said, "And, like any combat veteran, you awakened quickly, ready to deal with the cause of a loud noise. I may not understand the technical terms but I do understand that which they describe."

Her bonded smiled down at Diarwen. "In the end analysis, our similarities will always outweigh our differences."

She snuggled into his breastplate. "Always," she said.

The first showers came gently, and attracted the same notice as the first snowfall in more temperate climates. They listened to it drumming on the metal roof as the rain began in earnest. Out on the land, the parched desert at first soaked up the moisture, then filled the dry washes. Excellion's levee channeled the flow past the construction site, but beyond that, it was free to spread out across the sand.

Optimus asked, "Did we cause this?"

"In part. Beltane, my love, is the promise of Imbolc and Ostara made manifest: Summer is here. You see, in my day, we had but two seasons—summer, which began at sunset last night, and winter, which begins at Samhain. By the modern reckoning, it is mid-spring; modern summer begins at Litha, and winter at Yule. It still confuses me sometimes."

"Years would confuse me had I not set my timekeeping function to account for them, when there are eighty-three of them to a vorn."

Diarwen nodded, tracing a pattern on his chestplate. "A century is a good unit of measurement for a Sidhe. I suppose we think of years more in the way that the humans do weeks or fortnights."

"More to the point, _we_ made it rain?"

"Yes, we had a part in it. Perhaps not so much as those who spirited themselves away to hold their own Great Rite in true, out on the land, as in the days of old. In those days, you and I would have done so as a matter of course, for it was the duty of the royalty and their consorts to bring the gods' blessing of new life to the fields, that the people might prosper."

"A thought for another time," he said, and their fields intertwined more closely than ever before.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

It was roughly ten in the AM, though neither Optimus (who had a built-in chronometer) nor Diarwen (who had a large clock installed on the wall of their quarters visible from both rooms) knew that. They were rather lost in one another; had they been in public, Ratchet, at least, would have had no hesitation in castigating them as "spacey bondeds."

When the knock on the human door came, it startled both of them.

Diarwen leapt down from the berth, and pulled a robe over her head: green, her Lady's color. She opened the door to find a large basket left there: a roasted chicken, baked potatoes, a container of cooked rice, three or four of vegetables, a tin of what proved to be rust sticks in Optimus' favorite flavor, and several good-sized apples and oranges. The note attached said only, "We'll see you later. The Circle."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen ni Gilthanel, the bonded Consort of Optimus Prime, said, "A good day to you, _acushla_, until I see you tonight. I fear I do not know precisely when that shall occur."

"Take the time you need," Optimus said. He watched her trim figure fade from sight, and cherished the knowledge of where she was and in which direction she was moving that was the result of their bonding.

Then he, too, left their old quarters for the last time.

A few weeks after Beltane, the move into the Cliff House was nearly complete, and not just for the bonded pair. Optimus, one among many of his fellow Cybertronians, walked to Cliff House with a laden subspace.

Once inside their new quarters, he unsubspaced Diarwen's boxes of belongings, and carefully set them down on the other side of the railing of her loft office. It was designed, like most human spaces in quarters shared with bots, to allow them to converse comfortably at eye level.

Almost a year had passed since she had agreed to teach him. But what a year! The first year mostly given over to peace in many, many vorn. Only Soundwave's raid, and their own, had brought back the bad old days.

The space he put boxes into was filled with her desk, her cabinets for herbs and essential oils, work benches for herbal work and for care of her armor and weapons, bookshelves, a kitchenette, and a chaise lounge near the wide windowsill where a riot of herbs had already made themselves at home, leaning out of their pots to catch the sun.

One corner had been dedicated to her music: that space was filled with racks and cases to keep her instruments, a small stereo surrounded by a shelf system entirely filled with CDs, and a bookcase for her sheet music.

Diarwen would be much more comfortable here than in the metal hangar building, he thought with satisfaction. Optimus had fond memories of that tiny apartment where they had begun their life together, but he would not miss its limitations.

Her work area overlooked his own office. The space beneath it provided locked storage for datapads. A circular staircase gave her easy access from her office to the top of his desk, where the usual provisions for small visitors had been made; the stair continued down to floor level for other human visitors. A bot-sized sofa and several chairs were arranged in the center of the room. Quite a few people could meet here; if more space was necessary, a conference room lay beyond a locked door into this one.

Optimus took a datapad from his desk drawer and left Diarwen a note in her message queue. His bonded was hard at work with Milestrina learning the cultural references necessary for understanding her latest translations. He smiled, knowing deep in his spark that she was radiating contentment and happiness.

Such was the life of bards and conservators alike. If she and Milestrina became so immersed in their work that they lost track of time and worked through dinner, it would not be the first time.

He subspaced the datapad and left the apartment, transforming as he reached the ramp leading down to the floor of the atrium.

Chromia waved to him, and he flashed his lights in acknowledgment as she hung a large, freshly cleaned mesh over the railing to let the solvent evaporate. Prowl nodded as he and Jazz edged a sofa up the ascending ramp. He met Sunstreaker and Sideswipe as they carried boxes into Cliff House itself.

He stopped them. "Good joor," he said. "A little more care in your packing might not come amiss.'" With one digit, he applied enough pressure to make a still component, the sole part of the contraption that could not be mistaken for something else, scrunch a bit deeper into the box Sunstreaker carried. That allowed smaller components, not quite so recognizable, to conceal it.

Sides flashed him a grin. "Thanks, Optimus," he said. His twin turned red over the faceplates.

Sunstreaker's flush would fade, Optimus hoped, by the time the Big Twins encountered Prowl.

Once outside the Cliff House, he followed the cliff around to the Temple, and paused for a moment. Sunlight picked out the tapestries which adorned the back wall, highlighting first this story, then that mech.

Optimus wondered if he had just been given some information he could not yet access. Something to do with the Original Primes, and with Primus; but what precisely, he could not say. He gazed at the tapestries, at Nova Prime's sunlit representation, then slowly went on.

Gaia awakened when they entered holy ground and hummed a note of delight, flooding Optimus with a feeling of being home. Burnout shared that feeling; Optimus could appreciate the sentiment, but he was a ruling Prime. His duties at this stage of his function did not allow him to devote himself fully to priestly concerns.

::Little one, when you are older, if you desire a frame of your own, you might choose to study for the priesthood. It was the function of an order of priests, after all, to care for the Allspark and for those who came to the Temple to venerate it.::

::I might like that,:: the femmeling replied. ::Do I have to decide right away?::

::No, sweetspark. All in Primus' good time.::

She hummed again, then fell silent.

Burnout had been working at his desk, set into an alcove on one side of the wide rock overhang which provided a roof for the temple. "Prime! Welcome!" he said, as he put his work away and joined Optimus near the Flame. "How may I serve?"

Optimus smiled down at him. "Sam and Hot Rod will be here soon to begin their studies. I believe Bumblebee will be with them. You may sit in if you like."

He felt Burnout's regret. "I'd only have to excuse myself. Camlock had her reformat. When she starts to come around I need to go up to Excellion's medbay."

Optimus had been interested in that himself. One of Excellion's elders, Camlock had been dealing with a worn out frame for some time. A snapped strut had been the last straw. She had elected to reformat into a Pretender frame rather than wait for materials to build a frame for her as much like her old one as possible.

He wondered how much of a challenge it would be for her to adjust to such a small frame; Burnout undoubtedly would be a comfort to her. "In that case, I will not interrupt your plans. Please convey my best wishes to Camlock."

"Yes, Prime, I will. Thank you."

Hot Rod, Bumblebee, and Sam Witwicky entered at that moment. They greeted Burnout, who made his excuses and retired to his office.

Sam looked strained.

When he could, the human Prime caught a cargo plane out of Andrews with Bumblebee on Friday night, arriving at Nellis in the wee hours of Saturday morning to spend a weekend with Carly and Danny. He couldn't do that so often as he might have wished; more experience with his job meant more responsibility, which meant less free time. His Saturdays were often work days; nor were Sundays immune.

Optimus thought as he greeted the human Prime that Sam didn't look physically tired; he had learned the soldier's habit of sleeping wherever and whenever the chance presented itself, and a plane journey was prime sleep time. But to Optimus' optics, he did look weary.

A separation from his wife and son might have been acceptable in wartime. However, the need for security kept the Witwickys on a wartime footing even now, and they would likely have to live out their lives on alert.

Optimus had no good answers for his brother Prime there. Sam could come out here, but away from Washington he would be able to do them very little good. Alternatively, Carly and Daniel could join him in Washington, a solution which Prowl had rejected as creating an unacceptable level of exposure.

Sam and Bumblebee, Prime and Protector, had very good instincts for getting out of the trouble which seemed to find them regularly. Carly and the baby, on the other hand, would be very difficult for a single Guardian to keep safe. The presence of Brains and Wheelie in the Witwicky household would create more danger for Carly and Danny; the two small bots would present a target for the same sort of criminal element that had captured Buzzsaw and Rumble.

If larger bots accompanied them, that placed a visible concentration of Cybertronians at a distant location, which might draw trouble of other sorts. Sending Pretenders was presently out of the question; if their help was needed, their secret was out.

No good solution presented itself.

A small sizzle jerked Optimus out of his gloomy reflections. Hot Rod had paid his respects to the eternal flame, and given to it a small amount of his morning energon, saved for that purpose. Then he joined them, sitting near Bumblebee.

"I never knew there had been so many Prime Candidates over the years, or that so many didn't make it through Elevation after the Original Primes died." The glyphs Rodi sent with the vocalized words conveyed a deep respect for all those who had made the attempt, and for Optimus in particular.

His Elevation had been a transcendent experience that Optimus would not have traded for anything. Only his bonding had come close. But it had also been extremely painful, and incredibly dangerous. There were better ways to reach a state of transcendence, ways that did not include uncontrolled exposure to the arcane energies of the Allspark.

That information, however, was oathbound to a level of the priesthood which Hot Rod had not yet achieved. At this point, he knew only that the lack of the Matrix of Leadership was somehow responsible for the dangerous situation which had marked the vorn of its absence.

Respecting the oathbond, Optimus replied only, "We are very fortunate to have recovered the Matrix."

Sam asked, "I'm still kinda unclear on how a bot, or in my case a not-bot, gets chosen to be a Prime."

"Sam, when Prima was running things, he made sure that there was no political favoritism or even caste consciousness involved in the selection of Prime candidates. Every young mechanism who was found to carry the Sigil of the Primes was brought into the Palace for training. Predeterminism was involved in the decision to do things that way; the younglings so marked had no choice in the matter, as their elders felt they were destined to be Primes. They were taken from their cohorts to live in the Palace and trained in the Temple.

"Some of those candidates were very badly suited to the responsibility of being elevated, and some could not withstand the process of elevation psychologically; a few could not withstand it physically. I remind you of Liege Maximo, for one, and he wasn't the only Prime to fall during the Golden Age—only the most notorious after Megatronus, the Original Prime who became known as the Fallen.

"After the Original Six disappeared, the duty of finding new Prime Candidates fell to the Magnus and the priests, as well as to the healers who typically discovered the Sigil during youngling upgrades. This transfer of responsibilities took place in a time of increasingly strict interpretation of the caste system. Mecha among the elite who put stock in Functionism, believing that one's caste and the frame into which one was sparked determined one's destiny for the entirety of one's existence, began to question whether persons in the castes lower than themselves could truly be intended to be Primes. Therefore, Rodi, by the time you came along, no one was looking for candidates among the laboring castes. After the war began, when Sentinel and I were the only living Primes, and the Decepticons began targeting medics, there was no one left to look for any new Primes, even among the highest castes."

Hot Rod said, "Optimus...about those fallen Primes. How do I know that I'm not going to turn out to be one of them? Fighting, violence, that's all I know. I'm Wrecker-sparked and that's what I know how to be, a Wrecker, nothing more. I'm not stupid, but I'm not the brightest bulb in the box either. What is it about me that—" The young mech threw up his servos. "What if I'm horrible at it, and we find that out too late?"

Optimus said, "Those who fell were entirely mad. Early on, they showed desire for the power and prestige of their elevated position, Rodi. You are not mad, and I think that your very freedom from that desire sets you aside from them. Were you self-important and spoiled, I would have a great deal more concern about your fitness as a Prime than I now possess."

Rodi found his peds suddenly interesting, and blushed. Bumblebee tickled him.

Optimus noted this and felt himself smile, but continued to be the grownup. "As you said, you are not stupid, and a great gulf exists between stupidity and ignorance. The first has no cure, but the second is easily remedied by education. What you do not know, you can learn.

"Also, I submit to you that those who aspire to the leadership of the Wreckers must have many of the same qualities as a Prime—and must deal with a much more headstrong, fractious group of followers than the Cybertronian population as a whole. If you wish to know how someone Wrecker-sparked can be a good leader, then you could do much worse than to observe how Roadbuster and Bulkhead fulfill that obligation."

"Yes, Prime."

Sam said, "I don't know why they picked me either, Rodi. I'm not even Cybertronian. I don't get it."

Optimus smiled. "You are both very young, as have been all new Primes. We are not chosen for what we are, but for what we have the potential to become. We are given the opportunity to fully manifest that potential, and placed in a position where we are free to use it to benefit all the People. And I think Sam's Elevation is a clear sign to us that we are _all_ of the People."

"Until all are one," Sam said softly. "The gods taking it in hand to bond a Prime and a Sidhe? It's another sign of the same thing."

"And picking a nobot like me, instead of some high-caste? Another sign that all means _all?"_ Rodi asked thoughtfully.

The senior Prime's optics brightened as he regarded his young disciple. "I will not state unequivocally that either of those is a 'sign from Primus,' not without a great deal of meditation on the subject. But I would not be surprised by that knowledge, either. However, your caste of sparking will not be the whole of why you were Chosen, Rodi. Primus rarely does things for a sole reason."

Rodi relaxed, and they went on with the lesson.

Optimus discussed the wide variety of bots who had been chosen both as Primes and as Protectors; the others asked questions. The sun crept further into the Temple, and then began to recede.

"I don't wish you to think that you must become like me," Optimus said to them all in closing. "Just as Bee knows that he will not become a second Megatron, unless he suffers a radical realignment of personality. But Ratchet will not transplant the chips for that."

Bee chirped and whistled in amusement, and Sam laughed out loud.

Optimus smiled. "Rodi and Sam, you both know that you have gifts to bring to our people other than my own. Yours will develop as you do, mature with you. As we no longer have access to the knowledge of the priests in the Temple, all three of us will grope our way into the future, much as did the Original Six."

"So does that make us the Unoriginal Four?" Sam said, with a tired smile.

The incense smoke curled about in the still air, displaced in puffs when they laughed yet again.

Optimus smothered another grin. "Those Primes were very much individuals, and that diversity made them strong for half a million years. The Council that preceded me were also very different from one another. I hope to foster as much diversity as possible among our small remaining population, beginning with this nascent Council of Primes."

Rodi and Sam looked at each other, and laughed again. A Council of Primes? Them? Nah.

Optimus let the moment pass. They were young; younger than he would have preferred to saddle with this responsibility. But he could see no other way forward. He ended the lesson, and asked them all to meet again the next time Sam was at the base.

As the young people left the temple, he overheard Rodi challenge Bee to a race. They kept themselves to a civil (barely) speed until they were clear of the temple grounds, then they were off, taking the long way to the main entrance, by the north fence and then all along the base perimeter.

He smiled for their youth, and the things they had yet to learn.

Optimus stood and shook loose sand from his plating, then knelt at the flame.

::Show me the way, O Primus. Would a change to the way Prime Candidates are trained and selected for Elevation be pleasing to You? Should this not be a sacrifice freely given to You and to the People? Should not Your Primes desire to dedicate themselves to You? If I err, I beg of You, enlighten me.::

His spark seemed to settle into his chest. Optimus felt the brief presence of Sigma Prime, and the knowledge arrived that the former training system had been right for a time when the Quintesson slave coding was still active.

Then Nova Prime was there in the temple with him, and he had his answer: a simple sense of rightness and fairness and _yes_, and he would have sworn that for a brief moment, Nova's servo lay on his shoulder, offering comfort.

In an instant so short his chronometers could not register it, he was alone again.

Optimus grounded himself, and left the Temple.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Later that day, Optimus was working at his desk when a knock on the human-sized door sounded. Diarwen, working on her translations, accepted a lift down to the floor, and answered it.

"Sam!" she said in delight. "Well come. Will you be having some tea?"

"Let me see if Optimus can spare some time first, Diarwen?"

The young human Prime looked tired, she thought, as her bondmate looked up from his desk and said, "Sam!" in the same tone she had used. "Of course I have time for you." He offered his palm.

Sam settled into the chair for human visitors. "Thanks, Optimus. I've got a problem you might have some insight on."

"I will of course share it, Sam. What is the problem?"

Sam found his hands interesting. After sufficient study of them, he raised his eyes to Optimus' optics, and said, "Before I was made a Prime, I wasn't especially religious by human standards. I knew that Bee had...religious feelings...toward a being called 'Primus,' but I didn't share them, and didn't know anything else about your beliefs. Then, in Egypt..."

"That must certainly have been startling to a young man of your background, yes," Optimus said calmly, folding his servos over his bellyplates.

"That's a mild word for it," Sam said, with a chuckle. "It was...puzzling. I changed fundamentally as a person in Egypt. I worked very hard in high school to get, and keep, my grades up. In college, I had no need to do that. It was exponentially easier, while the classes themselves were exponentially harder.

"You know the rest of that story. But, Optimus," the younger Prime said, looking again at his hands, "I still don't have any kind of relationship with Primus."

"One does not seem to be developing on its own?"

"No," Sam said. "When you talked about a novitiate, Optimus, what I felt was panic. I can't dedicate myself yet, not honestly, anyway."

"Sam, you are unique among my people, and among your own as well. I do not think you need to be concerned about your inability to dedicate yourself. You are being honest with both yourself and Primus about this. It is the mark of maturity to refrain from such a decision if you do not have the strong feeling it is right.

"If you can carve out twenty minutes a day, use them to meditate on Primus. I will have Diarwen send to you those texts she has been translating with Milestrina; that way, at least, you will have more information."

Diarwen said from her office, "Excuse me, Optimus, but I can have those printed out and ready to go in about twenty minutes."

To her amusement, both Primes said in unison, "Thank you, Lady Diarwen."

Optimus stood, and offered his palm to Sam. "Let us go for a drive, Sam. I wish to tell you a few things. One of them is what contact with Primus usually feels like."

End Part Thirty-Five


	36. Chapter 36

Part Thirty-Six

Disclaimers in Part One

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen awakened in the early morning, darkness still outside their window. Optimus had moved her, futon and all, to the corner of their berth.

She noted that he was getting entirely too good at doing that without waking her.

The lights in his office were on. She yawned, pulled on her chemise and slippers, and went to him, by way of the necessary.

She found her bondmate glowering at his datapad as if it were a Decepticon.

"What is wrong, _acushla?_ Has something happened?"

"I am trying to work on this ritual, and getting nowhere with it."

Curious, she climbed to his desktop. "May I?"

"Of course, you are my bondmate." He offered her his palm. "By Cybertronian law, we are one spark; there are no secrets in a sparkbond. And this is not oathbound, in any case."

Diarwen peered over the edge of the datapad, its cool blue light gilding her cheekbones. "For this, you will need Sam. I have a passing fair acquaintance with modern Cybertronian, but this bears about as much resemblance to it as Old English does to the modern language."

"True. Most Cybertronians do not speak the Language of the Primes any more, or they have just enough of it to get through services at the Temple. It was the formal language of the palace and of ritual, but with the passing of the Original Primes, there are very few left who speak it colloquially. Milestrina can, though."

"What is making it difficult?"

"The writing of ritual is part of your tradition, but Sigma Prime wrote most of our rituals, and they have come down to us verbatim."

She made optic contact, and the bondmates gazed at one another for a few seconds, love like a rising tide between them, before Diarwen said, "There are many varieties of dedication to the gods, or to a specific god. What is this one intended to do, exactly?"

"You know that we young Primes did not choose to dedicate ourselves to Primus. That choice was made for us, by virtue of the Sigil placed upon us. That is to change. The evening after our Prime Council, I was briefly in the presence of Sigma Prime and Nova Prime. I was left assured by that contact that my decision to cease forcing all Prime Candidates into the life of a Prime does reflect the Will of Primus."

"That is a very sound decision. I would not be surprised to find that the lack of choice in the current process was somewhat horrifying to Primus."

Optimus smiled at his bondmate. "Nor should I. At any rate, every potential Prime will still be trained, of course. But now, that that period of instruction is to be a novitiate for them. They will be expected to spend time in prayer and meditation, to search their sparks and determine for themselves if they truly have a vocation. If they do, then before their Elevation, they will go through this ritual to dedicate themselves to Primus of their own will." Optimus' optics flickered down to what he had written, and back to Diarwen. "I am to be an example."

"You will be the first?"

"I shall."

She puckered her brows. "So it is similar to a sparkling's Acceptance of a cohort?"

"Yes, so it is, and also of an adult's Acceptance into additional cohorts. I had not thought of it in that way. At Elevation, we do become part of the cohort of Primes, so that is indeed a great part of it."

"What became of those young Primes who failed their elevation? Are they too part of that cohort in the Well of All Sparks?"

"Indeed they are."

Diarwen nodded, her face grave. "Very similar to Acceptance, then. It seems to me that they offered themselves to Primus, and from that instant they were Primes, whether or not they survived the desperate attempt at Elevation that was left to them without the Matrix."

Optimus inclined his head; his bondmate had, once again, clarified for him what hours of thought could not.

Presidents and dictators would have paid him to teach them to nod that way; he became immediately dignified and transcendent with a dip of the helm. "It is so."

Diarwen said, as if her thoughts had come to her from a long, long way off, "When I fought beside the humans in Afghanistan, many of my compatriots were firefighters in civilian life. They said to me, several of them, that the only act of heroism was to put on the uniform for the first time; everything thereafter was part of the job. I think the same thing can be said of Primes. To take on that mantle is to sacrifice yourself for the People, as was true of the Irish kings of old. You have, in essence, given Lord Primus a blank check, as our human friends would say."

"That is true, but you know yourself the rewards attendant on meeting those demands placed upon us by our gods. And it is no more than anyone else on this base has done."

"Aye, I know it. When I have some distance from this place and time, I will write a song for the warriors I have known here, and those who fought with us in Chicago. There are no greater heroes feasting in the hall of Arionrhod than they. I will do my best to see that the People sing those names for a thousand years."

Optimus smiled at her, this keeper of his spark, whose own soul he kept in return. "Your kind and mine have long memories, Diarwen. As long as we function, their legend will live on, and we will remember them with gratitude."

She rose, and went to the stairs. "Come back to bed, _acushla._ You need to recharge. There will be time enough for this tomorrow."

Optimus smiled, and put the datapad in his desk. He knew now what he needed to write, and how it needed to be written.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Burnout stood shrouded in the shadows of the temple, with only his own optics and the flickering blue light of the Eternal Flame for illumination. Past the overhang, the predawn light began to dispel the chill of a desert night. On either side of a wide aisle, a congregation consisting of most of the bots in residence here, and no small number of their human compatriots, stood in hushed stillness; Optimus Prime waited outside the boundary of the Temple.

Only the quiet hum of idling engines was to be heard. Even the sparklings were silent. The collective energy field was taut with anticipation.

It was not every day that Primus decreed a new ritual for the People.

Burnout spoke. "Hear, People of Cybertron, how the First One has blessed us."

"Share with us the wisdom of the First One," the Cybertronians replied.

"From the days of Prima until this day, Primus has chosen his Primes to serve Him and to guide the People. We honor Prima, first among Primes, and the greatest Magnus."

"We honor Prima," came the response. Some in English, most in Cybertronian. The Pretenders had scattered themselves throughout the human audience to act as response-leaders.

"We honor Solus Prime, Warrior, Maker, and Prime Consort."

"We honor Solus Prime."

The priest continued to call the roll of the Primes. Absent from among them were all those named Fallen, the last of whom was Sentinel.

But included were all the Prime Candidates who had not survived their attempt at Elevation. They would be remembered and honored among the People, for their ultimate sacrifice had been their first and only act as Primes.

Finally Burnout, his optics flashing every color of the rainbow, called out, "We honor Optimus Magnus, our Defender, our Liberator, and our Lord Prime, beloved of the People."

The People thundered, "We honor Optimus Magnus."

Optimus had not expected that, but those rainbow optics were the unmistakable sign of a priest in communion with the Well of All Sparks. His faceplates heated with embarrassment, but he stood tall and walked down the aisle to stand before Burnout.

"Why come you before this flame, which symbolizes the Spark of Primus?" said the priest.

Optimus bowed his helm. "I wish to rededicate myself as His Prime, to serve Him and His People for all the orn of my function."

"Do you make this request of the First One of your own free will, with no misgivings in your spark, knowing that He will require of you all that you are, and all that you ever will be?"

Optimus did know that. But he had died once in the service of Primus already. He said calmly, "I do not fear to make this request, nor to ask the help of the First One."

"Does any spark, soul, or spirit come with you into this rededication?"

Diarwen stepped forward from the first row of seats to stand at Optimus' side. She wore a new gown of scarlet with a blue tabard over it, the hem of the tabard embroidered with Optimus' signature flames. Her hair coiled in a matron's plaited crown, woven through her circlet of silveroak leaves. A belt of braided metals rode low on her slender hips, its buckle the Autobot symbol, the end falling just short of her tabard hem bound also with flames. "I, Diarwen ni Gilthanel, consort and bondmate to Optimus Magnus, do so enter into the Presence of Lord Primus. May I be found acceptable unto Him."

"Be welcome among the People, and in the sight of the First One."

Optimus said, "My brother and sister Primes, I present to you the other half of my spark, my beloved Consort, the Lady Diarwen."

The Sidhe warrior, more accustomed to a sword salute, had not come under arms to a peaceful temple. She curtseyed gracefully, till her knee nearly brushed the clean-swept stone of the temple floor, and spoke in Sidhe, with Evanon translating into English, and Milestrina providing the Cybertronian glyphs. "Most esteemed Ancients and Elders, well do I remember thee from the days of my childhood. Know that thou art remembered for thy grace and courage among the People of Titania, and will be held precious in our sight as long as our kindred remain in Tir Nan Og and in Arda. It is my honor and great joy to be joined to one of your number."

Diarwen stood, and felt a chill wind where none was present in the physical world. She had met enough spirits on the astral plane to recognize a ghost: the spirits who sent her welcome were those of the Original Primes, whom she had met before. The rest, those who had followed the Six, regarded her with a mixture of welcome and curiosity.

There were among them those who had never met an organic. Over his long lifespan, though, Nova Prime had taken organic consorts, though bonded to none, but many vorn separated her from him. Diarwen both welcomed and returned their curiosity.

Many there were unable to see Nova drop to one knee before Milestrina to put himself on eye level with the ancient Conservator, one servo gently wiping away the single coolant tear that spilled from her faded optic. Diarwen's own eyes filled at the silent look that passed between them. She understood then that he had been her Patron, and much more.

Last to come forward were the six Primes who had preceded Optimus, along with the absent Sentinel—Ultra Magnus, very like Optimus but stern and forbidding, yet wise; that wisdom bestowed, she thought, by a certain kindness in his deep blue optics.

Lio, one of the few quadrupedal frame types that she had ever seen, had been very young at his death and was still youthful in spirit. Guardian was the winged Prime who had so infuriated Starscream; then Nexus, and Zeta, and studious-looking Alchemist. These had been Optimus' second family, for a thousand years—a long time even by Sidhe reckoning.

So much of what Diarwen knew of that part of his life began and ended with his brother's betrayal, added to only by what little else she had gleaned from off-handed remarks made by Ironhide and Chromia. After a time she had a sense from them that she was accepted into the company.

Lio parted last from Optimus, for they had been relatively close in age and companions within the palace. The lionformer paused to give Diarwen a saucy wink, which made her smile, before fading back into the otherworld.

The Prime and his Consort turned to face the People. Beside her, Diarwen felt Optimus settle his fields as he looked around, making optic contact with many in the crowd. Then he began to speak in English. "We stand together at the threshold of a new way of life. I ask of you, my people, to join with me in building a new Cybertronian society, where every life is valued—one where we do not simply give lip service to the idea that freedom is the right of all sentient beings.

"Instead, we dedicate ourselves to the creation of a civilization where that is held to be the will of Primus. That begins with the dawn of a day where Primes choose to be such, and also encompasses the reality that we must build where each of us is placed. We will all be given the opportunity to reach high, to work toward realizing our dreams, regardless of caste or status. From now on, we are no longer Autobots first, or Decepticons first. We are Cybertron. Until all are one."

"Until all are one," hundreds of voices thundered in reply, in Cybertronian, in English, and in Sidhe.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The day shone sunny and bright as Optimus bade farewell to Diarwen. As he did every day, kept his awareness of her position, movement (none at the moment; she was at her desk), and condition (happy) at the forefront of his consciousness as he covered the very short distance to work. Sideswipe sent greeting glyphs, then fell silent as he accompanied Optimus to the "business side" of Cliff House.

They arrived, and Optimus let his knowledge of his bondmate's happiness stay in the background of his mind.

He nodded to the bots and humans present in Admin, and then went to the conference room instead of his office. From the particles of coffee in the air, the humans had several cups of it inside.

They proved to have an urn set up; they also had a large platter of baked goods, and a second of rust sticks. Prowl was chewing one thoughtfully, with as much enjoyment on his face as Prime had seen lately. Jazz watched, broad grin encamped on faceplates.

Ironhide smiled at him from across the room, and the affection foster-son and foster-father held for one another filled the space between them.

Drift, there as Excellion's captain, Wheeljack, and Ratchet, Scott Glasco, Will Lennox, Alastair Graham, Arturo Melendez...all those summoned were present.

Diarwen in her role as Prime Consort had received an invitation, but Optimus remembered her wrinkling up her nose. "I've naught to add, Optimus, and when I do not these meetings are not...something I find rewarding." Those last four words had come out in a rush; she would never be so indiscreet as to use the word "boring." Optimus almost smiled.

Sam had found himself explaining that she now had a title to Carly when hers arrived; shortly after, Optimus had fielded a 15-minute call from him that was little less than a cry for help. Carly, after all, was British. She had not been born to and did not want a title.

Optimus tossed that problem right into his own Consort's lap. Her solution consisted of three minutes of conversation: "Sam, let me speak to Carly, please. Hello, Carly. —Have you seen my tiara?" A tiny silence, and a noise from Diarwen's cell phone that might have been a snort of laughter, then, "That is because I do not have one. You do not have to either, unless of course you wish to."

Another tiny silence, and Diarwen's eyes crinkled slightly at the corners; Optimus thought she was trying not to laugh. But all she said was, "On this base and only here, bots and a few Pretenders will address you as 'Prime Consort' unless you request them not to."

Quack-quack from the cell phone. Diarwen gave a very slow blink, such as a cat does. "No, of course they will continue to call you 'ma'am,' as that is the standard of polite address on the base. They certainly will not curtsy to you, unless you request that." A splutter from the phone that might have been outrage, laughter, or the first succeeded by the second. Diarwen continued, "Carly, being a Prime Consort means that you can set the rules for how much formality you desire. I desire very little. Did you know that I have been called 'Prime Consort' for almost six months now? It is painless to be so addressed, and it has made no changes at all in my daily life. That is because I did not allow it to. You can do the same."

And such, it seemed, was all it took. He smiled at the memory, then glanced around the conference room.

All expected were present. He cleared his throat. "Good joor, everyone. Does anyone have any urgent business before we begin with the weekly reports?"

Sam waved half a cheese danish, the intergalactic signal for "I want to talk." "We have a visitor, Optimus, that VIP Director Mearing told us to expect, the guy from the President's staff. He's presently on base. He wants to address us about the election. I told him we'd bring him in last so he could have as much time as he needs. Flareup is showing him around the base until we're ready for him."

"Did he give you any more information than that regarding his topic?"

"No, he didn't."

"Very well. Thank you, Sam. Prowl?"

The provost marshal reported, "Two fourteen-year-old humans were caught in a compromising position in the storage shed by the firing range. Their parents were summoned to retrieve them from my office, and both are now receiving a lecture from Dr. Parker." He waited for a round of laughter to die down, then said, "Other than that, there have been no incidents since my last report. However, I do wish to report that the motion-sensitive cameras, installed after that photographer's incursion into the base, are now performing. We ran tests last night, and they do indeed send a signal to Admin when triggered."

"Thank you, Prowl. Chief Melendez?"

The head of operations said, "Minor fire yesterday evening, sir; a mouse chewed some wiring in the supply shed beside the plant services building. Personnel on duty extinguished the fire without incident and damage was confined to the immediate area of the junction box. Suggest, sir, that you review the existence of mice with Excellion, or he might catch 'em gnawing on something he'd rather they didn't. Perhaps he should consider getting a ship's cat, sir."

Optimus relayed that advice immediately, which Excellion received with a certain amount of alarm. He said, "Thank you, Chief. Ratchet?"

"The member of Excellion's crew who underwent reformatting sends thanks for the Pretender frame; it's more than satisfactory. The others who must reformat soon are much larger-framed bots than that patient formerly was, with appropriately larger sparks. It's my opinion that transition into such small frames would be medically contraindicated for those bots except in a life-and-death emergency.

"I have no concerns about any others whose health I monitor on an ongoing basis, and thus nothing to report." Ratchet smiled; no news was good news. "But those who need reformats—where are we on sending the Aerialbots up to the moon to salvage the _Ark_, Prime? I need those materials."

"It is a high priority. We are stockpiling enough energon for them to make the trip and come back with full loads of salvage. I will have Silverbolt report to you to discuss their carrying capacities, so that you may prioritize what is to be retrieved on the first trip. We will need to accommodate space for crew identification and the ship's log."

"Thank you, Prime," said the bot.

Optimus nodded. "Jazz?"

"Nothing t' report, Prime. Now that Soundwave's accounted for, the human internet is as safe as we can make it. Least, from Cybertronian threats, that is."

"Thank you, Jazz. Wheeljack?"

The Wrecker said, "I'm happy to report that our energon production capacity is now keeping up with our needs, and even providing us with a modest surplus every orn after fully supplying the fliers."

Sideswipe exclaimed, "Thank You, Primus!" Those in performance frames had suffered most from the shortages; speedsters were particularly prone to damage after long periods of idleness.

Wheeljack grinned. "Excellion deserves some of the credit. He's modified a number of his exterior surfaces which aren't in daylight all the time for energon production if conditions are met for it."

"Thank you, Wheeljack. Sam, do you have anything else?"

"Not right now, Optimus, but I might after I hear what Mr. LaSalle has to say," the younger Prime replied.

"Mr. Glasco?"

"I'd like to invite Raf Esquivel and Camlock to train with us."

"Thank you. I will convey the invitation to Camlock and to Raf's uncle, contingent, of course, upon medical approval."

"Sir." Glasco sat down.

"Are there any more reports?"

The room fell silent.

Optimus said, "Then I think we are ready to hear from Mr. LaSalle." He commed Flareup to that effect, and there was a brief delay full of speculation, the munching of rust sticks, and coffee refills while she brought the White House staffer to the conference room; he declined a lift, and walked from the firing range.

Optimus helped himself to an energon goodie from a tray in the middle of the table, and sent Chromia a quick thanks: they really were very good.

A few moments later, Flareup pinged for admittance. "Mr. Jemar LaSalle to speak to everyone, Prime. Mr. LaSalle, Optimus Prime."

"Thank you, Flareup. Welcome, Mr. LaSalle."

LaSalle climbed the stairs to the tabletop and laid his briefcase on the human-sized table, in front of a vacant chair, then extended his hand to touch the digit Optimus held out to him, just as if he were shaking hands with another human. "Thank you, Prime. It's an honor to meet you in person."

"Mr. LaSalle, may I introduce everyone?"

"Thank you."

This was accomplished. They were not to know that Flareup had sent a "cheat sheet" of names and paint jobs (human, Pretender, and Cybertronian alike) to LaSalle's phone.

LaSalle smiled at the end of this. "It's wonderful to have the opportunity to thank you all properly, after so long."

Optimus tipped his helm. "May I ask what for, sir?"

"Your assistance as a group, and an action of your own during the battle of Chicago. My family was caught in the Loop; we were there for my daughter's sixteenth birthday. We had just finished breakfast and were leaving the hotel to take her on a shopping spree, her birthday present, when all hell broke loose."

LaSalle, a trim, spare man who reminded Optimus of his foster-father, blinked for a moment. Then he continued, "People were shot down all around us. The Decepticons fired into the crowd, it seemed for nothing more than target practice."

Ironhide rumbled into speech. "It was," he said.

LaSalle nodded to him. "I'm not surprised to hear that. My family—I knew if we stayed in the open, we were dead. A crashed armored car sat close by, ripped open. We hid inside it, but there was no way to get back out without being seen. It was only a matter of time before the Decepticons spotted us."

There was a brief silence. No one spoke; they'd all been in that situation or something like it, though they couldn't imagine what it might be like to have your family in it with you.

"What went on next is why I asked to be the one to address you, Prime. You led the Autobots on that charge down Wacker Boulevard. You looked down at me and my family, and you barely broke stride, but you took the time to shove the armored car over onto the sidewalk with your foot, where we could duck down the alley and get to better cover in a basement. We were safe there until the National Guard rescued us."

The room was silent for a moment. Then Optimus spoke.

"I remember now. I am gratified to hear that you escaped safely. I regret that there was not time to get you and your family behind the lines."

"An unnecessary regret, sir. You were doing exactly what had to be done. I, personally, will never forget it...More to the point of today's meeting, the administration has not forgotten everything that you have done for this nation and for our world."

"You're very welcome, Mr. LaSalle. How may we be of assistance to you now?"

LaSalle said, "It's more what we can do for you, Optimus, and it has to do with the upcoming election. I understand that you can't take sides, but that isn't what this is about. I don't know how closely you have been following the Republican primaries?"

Optimus said, "I keep myself updated on political news across party lines."

"Good. You know, then, that Mitt Romney is almost certain to be the GOP nominee. He is the former governor of Massachusetts, a graduate of Harvard Law School, and a very wealthy man who has a large number of similarly wealthy friends and campaign backers."

"And a guy who put his dog in its crate and fastened the crate to the top of his car for a drive of several hundred miles," Scott Glasco added, and threw a pencil down on the table.

LaSalle smiled at him. "That too, Mr. Glasco. But it is that group of backers who concern us most in reference to your people. We have credible information that they plan to use your presence on Earth as a divisive issue. You're aware that they have already been making every effort to portray the President as un-American, as lying about having been born in this country, as having religious ties to the Middle East, et cetera. We've already seen efforts to include your people in the fiction that the President is bringing hordes of undocumented people into the United States."

Optimus replied, "Yes. When we had protesters outside the base, that was one of the accusations leveled against us."

La Salle fiddled with the leather portfolio in front him for a moment, then said, "The backers mean to demand that the President force you either to submit to Pentagon authority, or to leave the planet. Now, before I go any further, the President has no intention of caving in to those outrageous demands. But all they need to get more people than just their base behind this ultimatum is one incident. We believe that there is a plan out there to create such an incident."

Optimus scowled. "Precisely what kind of incident?"

"I don't know if they've decided that yet, Prime. All we know at this time is that it would have to be something newsworthy, and something that they could spin to embarrass the President. We also know that they accept a certain amount of collateral damage as the cost of doing business, so we would not be surprised to find innocent bystanders caught up in it. In fact, it would make the incident more newsworthy if there were."

Optimus' optic shutters narrowed as he considered possibilities. Beside him, the fields of his 2iC altered as he brought up his formidable tactical processor to accomplish the same task, an order of magnitude more efficiently.

"Mr. LaSalle, to counter this effectively I need names and more intel on their capacities," Prowl said. "The more information I have available, the more accurate my predictions can be, and the better my ability to formulate an effective response."

LaSalle's own fields radiated frustration. "I understand, Prowl. Director Mearing will be speaking to you presently. Part of the problem is that we have a suspect list too broad to formulate a response. As for their capacities, they have the right-wing lunatic fringe, who tend to be very well armed, and many of them have a military background, or quasi-military training of the kind hate groups engage in. Anyone on our list of suspects has the money to recruit from this pool of potential operatives and secretly equip them with top of the line gear. They can't field a regular army, but it is our opinion that they could recruit, organize and outfit a strike force of a few hundred individuals within weeks. It is my personal opinion that they have already done so."

Lennox said, "Mr. LaSalle, you're talking about treason against the United States of America. An armed uprising by, what, a corporate militia of some sort?"

"The financial reports of some of these corporations rival those of small nations in net worth, Colonel. Some of them have security forces on their payroll which could be considered a small army. But we don't expect them to show up in uniform and try to conquer a city somewhere. Rather, we think they're going to use small groups of extremists who honestly believe they're saving the country from the forces of...fill in the blank. Essentially, their talent pool is very small-minded: anyone who differs from them is the enemy. You've seen these patriot groups on the news, and you know from the protests outside the base how small a spark it would take to set off that particular powder keg."

Optimus said, "Yes, very tiny indeed.—Mr. LaSalle, what does the administration want us to do?"

"For now, be aware that things may not be as they seem, particularly if you are asked to assist with an emergency or something of that nature. It might be a set-up, with the intention of making you look like the cause, and not the solution."

Optimus said with a frown, "It would sit ill with me to refuse assistance were we asked to give it."

LaSalle straightened. "I am not advising you to do so. But consider being as public as possible about responding to a call for help. In your position, I would first confirm that a request for assistance is valid, originates from the source it purports to come from, and is in fact a request from state or local government. If you get any kind of call from some other source, call 911 first, and make every effort to let the authorities respond before you arrive at the scene. Either way, if you choose to respond, be seen to cooperate with whoever is in charge. If something looks 'off' in any way, document the daylights out of the situation, so that you can make a liar out of anyone wrongfully reporting it."

Prowl said, "I will push out general orders to all of our people to that effect shortly after this meeting, Mr. LaSalle."

"Thank you, Prowl. In general, be aware that your actions are under scrutiny by people who are avidly seeking any excuse to take things the wrong way. Be careful not to become the lead story. If you turn up any information, report it to Director Mearing before taking any action. The FBI and Homeland Security are already investigating any credible reports of armed insurgents within the United States, no matter what kind of extremists they happen to be, and they have been doing so since 2001. The government of the United States is on this, and you are not on the edge of a cliff with a lot of well-armed crazy people between you and safety.

"For example—if they set up a training camp somewhere and leak its location to you, please, don't take unilateral action. You handled the situation with the Eastgaters exactly right. The local sheriff took the lead and then you did what had to be done, and your special capabilities averted a tragedy as a result. The difference here is that the people ultimately responsible would work to see that tragedy happen and blame you for it."

"I understand, Mr. LaSalle. We dealt with similar situations in the early days of our war, when propaganda was still a useful weapon. On several occasions, the Decepticons attempted to sway the opinion of neutral civilians by making it look as though we had committed atrocities. We will maintain a constant awareness of the possibility of similar events here. I take it that Director Mearing is fully aware of this situation?"

"Yes, sir, she is, was I should say, briefed at the White House this morning."

Lennox said, "Mr. LaSalle, this—sounds impossible to me, but I feel it is my responsibility to ask. Are you suggesting the possibility of a _coup d'etat?"_

"That's always a possibility, Colonel. Right now, though, we feel that the interests of this group of people are best served by facilitating the election of a president who would be sympathetic to their objectives. And let me state for the record that we have zero evidence that any potential candidates are involved in any such plot, or even aware of it."

"Strict compartmentalization would be absolutely necessary for the success of a plot like this," Prowl said. "And, in the event of its failure, to limit damages."

"Of course, sir."

Jazz muttered something that sounded like, "Here we go again. Frag it."

The Prime cut his optics to and away from his Spec Ops head, but didn't contradict him, and no one else did either.

The spymaster asked, "Mr. LaSalle, do you think they're making use of the internet?"

"I think they've learned enough from al Qaeda to use couriers," LaSalle replied. "For short messages, they might have pre-established codes that could be trusted to non-secure communications, but anything incriminating is very likely to be off the grid. Of course, Lady Luck could smile upon us and someone could slip up."

Optimus said, "I have noted that Lady Luck's assistance tends to appear most often when we have not depended upon it."

"Yes, sir." LaSalle might have grinned.

With that, the meeting ended and most of the attendees went on about their duties, after a bit of post-meeting banter and a little friendly chatter with LaSalle. Optimus asked him, as well as Lennox, Sam, Jazz, and Prowl, to come with him to his office.

End Part Thirty-Six


	37. Chapter 37

Part Thirty-Seven

Disclaimers in Part One

Diarwen looked over the railing to see what was going on. "Do you need the room, Optimus?" she asked.

"No, this concerns you as well."

She turned off the datapad that she had been using and descended the stairs to join the humans on their corner of Optimus' desk.

"Diarwen, this is Jemar LaSalle, Mr. Lew's senior assistant. Mr. LaSalle, the Lady Diarwen ni Gilthanel, Prime Consort."

She smiled at her bondmate, thinking that if Sam could learn to introduce his lady and her title with that much style and grace, she might reconsider her objections.

The Sidhe extended a slender hand to their guest. "It is very good to meet you, Mr. LaSalle."

"Likewise, milady. I've heard a great deal about you. I was fascinated by your history with our nation, going back to the days of the revolution. Political history is an interest of mine, and I understand that you were on President Cleveland's staff during both his terms in office?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact I was. Officially, I was his children's governess, but unofficially, I was the head of his family's security detail. I very much enjoyed my time there."

"Perhaps you might consider indulging my questions about the White House of that era."

"I would look forward to it, Mr. LaSalle. I fear that nowadays only those with a passion for history are very interested in my stories of those times."

"It would be a pleasure. But I'm afraid the business that I have to discuss today is anything but."

"I see." She spied Prowl pouring cubes of energon for Prime, Jazz and himself. "May I offer you coffee or tea, and perhaps a raspberry scone?"

"Thank you, that scone sounds amazing. I had something on the plane, but that was very early this morning. Black coffee, please."

"Will, Sam, scones for you as well?"

Sam demurred on the calories, but accepted tea. His desk job and his sweet tooth between them ensured that he was perpetually fighting a battle of the bulge.

Lennox happily accepted the offer of a scone, since NEST's rigorous training tended to leave its personnel with the opposite problem: keeping their weight up.

Diarwen disappeared briefly, made noises offstage, and returned with a tray of refreshments.

She listened quietly as LaSalle told her what he had already told the rest.

"I can imagine what they would make of Optimus and me," she said finally.

"You've been the soul of discretion," he replied. "It doesn't seem that they have any idea. The president wishes for me to assure you that, should he leave office, he will ensure that your relationship remains unknown unless you choose differently."

"Thank you. We have seen no need to give much discussion to that particular eventuality," Diarwen replied.

Officially, no one in NEST, and no Cybertronian, could express his or her personal preferences publicly. But with that oblique statement, Diarwen made her stand on the matter quite clear. LaSalle smiled, and sat down beside Lennox.

The Ranger nodded to him with a mouthful of scone. "Diarwen, these are great."

"They had some at Hanratty's—a pub in Las Vegas; I sometimes go there to play my harp," she added for LaSalle's benefit. "I decided to see if I could copy the recipe. I believe this is fairly close to Hanratty's version."

LaSalle said, "They're delicious."

"Thank you."

Sam's tea was very hot. He sipped carefully, then said, "I know there's a long suspect list, but you must have some front runners. I doubt it's any of the names that we'd yank out of the headlines. Those guys think they can get what they want by throwing money at it, after _Citizens United_. Getting involved with an illegal conspiracy wouldn't fit their game plan."

"Right," LaSalle said. "The families we're looking at—maybe I should call them dynasties—keep themselves out of the headlines. A lot of them have been very powerful for a very long time. They're careful to avoid showing up on lists of America's richest people, and they do that by keeping much of their money overseas. They still have ties and a lot of assets in the old country, several old countries I should say, unless they kept their assets in physical form. Most of that, land, jewels, art, was lost during the communist era and the breakup of the European empires. Families so affected had to start over here, but in very few cases did they start over from scratch. Many of them had been the so-called noble houses, sometimes married into royal houses, and they still think of themselves in those terms—divine right of kings, and all that."

Diarwen listened intently. "I may have known some of their ancestors. I may even have crossed swords with them."

"I suspect that's true, milady. They may not know about your relationship with Prime here, but I think it's too much to hope that you personally are unknown to them."

"Likely. One is known by one's enemies, and those are enemies that I am not sorry to have made. I suppose it is also too much to hope that the breed has improved over the generations."

"We have a saying, Lady Diarwen, that the trouble with inherited nobility is that nobility is not hereditary. Also, some of them are the ultimate leadership of organized crime families. We have a few left-overs from the cold war, families that emigrated to South America—and some middle-rank ex-Nazis—who once there were supported by our government because they offered opposition to leftist reformers."

He opened his briefcase and took out a stack of dossiers. Diarwen scooted over to give Jazz room to see the human-sized papers, knowing that he would push it out to Optimus and Prowl.

LaSalle sorted through the files. "A couple of them are Middle Eastern princes. Your raid on that nuclear facility last year made a number of people nervous about you, Prime."

"I am surprised that did not turn into another excuse for an endless round of hearings and right wing media outrage in the same way that Benghazi did," Optimus replied.

"It was impossible to spin toward their objective, as it showed us in too good a light, sir. There's no way the opposition could make a decisive victory like that look bad on the White House without criticizing US intervention—and they can't do that as long as they're promoting intervention. Also, they want your people acting in US interests, so they can't criticize you for doing that. And, at that time, the media was entirely focused on Chicago. The popularity of our military, NEST, and the Autobots was polling in astronomical numbers. Any attempt to politicize the raid would have been shouted down by their own base."

Sam said, "What I'm hearing is that their machinations are about acquiring more power. They want either to have Cybertronians under their control, or to ensure no one else has an alliance with you." He nodded at Optimus. "So that rules out the princes, because they'd wait until after the election and offer you a better deal, Optimus. These people are empire building, and you're a wildcard that no emperor can afford to have put in play by their opposition."

LaSalle opened his mouth, shut it for a moment, and then, sounding slightly stunned, said, "That...makes the sort of Machiavellian sense that would appeal to these people."

Prowl said, "If that is the case, we can expect to see them attempt to cut off our options so that we have no choice except turn to them. They know that we have civilians to protect now. They will see that as an exploitable weakness."

Diarwen's aura turned cold and brittle, though her expression remained diplomatically neutral. Optimus reached out to her. _"Beloved?"_

_"Will I see my family again left with the choice between conquest and retreat?" _All the blood and chaos of the final decampment of the Seelie Court to Tir Nan Og lay at the forefront of her mind.

Optimus replied, _"I have a third option. We stop them."_

-Sidhe Chronicles-

In the very early hours of the next morning, Sam waited on the tarmac for Bumblebee to meet him for the run back to Nellis. Optimus went to him. "Brother, you are still troubled."

"Yes. The more I think about it, the more I'm worried about Excellion. As long as he's here, you have too many options to make these people happy. He's too easy a way for you to pack up all of us, including the organics allied with you, and get the hell out of Dodge. That's an option they don't want you to have."

"They would dare a great deal to try to act on that," Optimus replied, with more starch in his tone than Sam was accustomed to hearing unless bullets were flying. "Excellion is formidable in his own right, even in city mode."

"So are suicide bombers," Sam pointed out.

Optimus gazed across the base at the cityformer. "We will take precautions. Prowl will be asked to consider the problem, Sam. If necessary, I will take preemptive action and move him off Earth."

The younger Prime offered, "No one's living on Mars. And for all we know, there are still a few Cybertronian stragglers living on the moon."

"That is a truth," Optimus said.

"I hope it doesn't come to that."

Optimus smiled slightly. "As do I. If it does, there will be a place for you and all of your family with us, including Ron and Judy, should they so wish."

Sam said, "I don't know what they'd do. We might not have a choice."

"Or we might locate these people and put a stop to the entire business." Extreme prejudice wrote itself large in Optimus' tone, and Sam relaxed a bit.

Bee arrived; Optimus said, "You two, keep yourselves safe in Washington. You are targets there."

"I know, brother. I remember the last time I made a target out of myself. I won't do anything that stupid again. I'm going to ask Director Mearing what precautions she thinks Bee and I should take, and we're going to listen to her."

"That eases my processor greatly. Have a good trip, and be careful."

"We will. I promise."

"Bee, that goes for you as well."

The young Guardian said, "Yes, Prime...no stupid risks...promise. Only...smart ones."

The brotherhood broke up with a laugh.

It wasn't until Bee's taillights had disappeared down the access road that Optimus saw the lights go out in the bedroom of Sam's apartment. Once again, Sam and his family were separated by miles and duty.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

After the brief mouse-centric conversation Excellion had with Optimus, and a longer one with Ops, the shipformer ran a personal scan, and found some small life signs in his lower level that he was certain he had not invited aboard.

The Web yielded a list of local animal shelters. He got clearance from Graham, chose a shelter that had to put animals down after a short time for lack of resources, and picked a cat whose paint job reminded him of a friend's.

First thing next morning, Bobby Epps was dispatched to this shelter. Shortly, he returned with a snaggle-toothed black and white beast, big enough to require the large carrier.

Cat-plus-carrier achieved sufficient weight that Epps leaned sideways to compensate for the cat's frantic thrashing. Fortunately, he didn't have to carry him far; he had permission to drive almost to Excellion's door.

The entire trip, car and foot, featured musical accompaniment by the cat, possibly titled "Extended Growl upon Outrage, with Variations." He was a cat, and he wanted no surprises. Today he had had three: first his personal space was severely invaded when he was microchipped, and then, still wrapped in the towel used to restrain him for the microchipping, he was placed in a carrier.

Then came the car trip. Long muscular forearms protruded from the cage, and made serious efforts to swipe at Epps' hand on the wheel. Serious, claws-out efforts, accompanied by an obbligato of feline swear words. Perhaps, thought Epps, a charitable fellow, the microchipping still stung.

But Excellion had insisted upon that microchip, as they were detectable by Cybertronian senses, and with it he would always know where the cat was. So would other Cybertronians and the Pretenders visiting Excellion, thus reducing to nothing the chances of having to peel sad scraps of black and white fur off the treads of somebody's ped.

Epps released Sebastian (Excellion said) on Excellion's lowest level, after setting up food, water, and a litterbox (some distance removed from the other two; would you want to eat in the privy?). He performed this exercise from behind the carrier, near the door, telling Excellion to shut it after him. This was a good decision on his part, as Sebastian felt he owed somebody a licking. That debt, however, remained unpaid: upon release, he sprang out of the carrier, rowled, and spun to express his displeasure further. But Excellion's door was already sealing behind Epps' retreat.

The level which Sebastian was now in sole possession held the small life signs which Excellion had detected. Sebastian would, he hoped, detect dinner.

The cat detected playtime instead. This had the same effect, that of swift reduction to zero of the mouse population aboard Excellion. However, Sebastian preferred the good catfood they bought for him to disposing of his night's work in the accepted fashion of a cat. It proved his only shortcoming.

He eventually made a friend, or at least a not-enemy, of Steeljaw. If the Wreckers were occupied near Excellion, Sebastian could usually be found sitting on top of Steelie, purring.

He also made an acquaintance, though he kept this affection to a scratch-behind-the-ears level, of Diarwen. The Sidhe's motivations were ulterior: she applied his flea medication mid-scratch. Usually, but not always, she completed this task without injury to herself.

Finally, Sebastian made enemies with Harvey, the equally large Maine Coon cat to whom Frankie Reis belonged. On more than one occasion they engaged in atonal duets, or perhaps yodeling contests, across the sandy no-cat's-land between Excellion's outer ring of lights and the entrance to the Cliff House. After a first memorable encounter and some vet bills, Excellion erected a series of stations around the base which emitted an ultrasound the cats found unpleasant, but these activated only when their microchips were within twenty feet of each other, and approaching. The duets continued without further injury.

When a coyote dared to invade no-cat's-land? The duet did not stop, although its intended audience changed. The coyote found itself faced with fifty-seven pounds of enraged cat, about half of that coming from Excellion, and the other half from Cliff House. The coyote turned tail, and word must have gotten around: no further coyote invasions were staged.

As for that litterbox: Sebastian shortly realized that he was magic and could make his personal door open any time he liked. (The true magic was Wheeljack's: the microchip could be used to trigger a sensor.) This magic allowed Sebastian to exercise an important cat-option: if you have the entire base to poop in, why do it in your own home?

Thus Sebastian's tale comes to an end. For almost a quarter-vorn, he proved himself to be an excellent mouser and all-around guardian of the base.

But in all his long and fruitful partnership with Excellion, the black-and-white cat never did forgive Bobby Epps.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

While Epps got the cat settled in, several NEST soldiers gathered at the intersection of the main road and the street leading past Pretender barracks. A group of Pretenders joined them, and they broke up into mixed fire teams, then split up for the morning's patrol. Some of the Pretenders were in root mode, others in human form; a few transformed occasionally for one reason or another. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Figueroa's partner was a Pretender of relatively light build who preferred root mode, and an observer would have assumed he preferred weaponry incorporated into his frame, because he didn't carry an auxiliary weapon. The pair drew patrol of the heights east of the firing range, difficult territory crisscrossed with narrow ledges and several played-out mines, all of those marked with "Danger-No Trespassing" signs and boarded up to keep would-be spelunkers out.

The observer was unlikely in the extreme to guess that the Pretender was, in fact, Raf, or that patrol duty gave him and Fig the opportunity to spend time together.

If that observer were of the urban persuasion, she might object, "Why do you need to patrol here? Stand on top of the highest point, spin three-sixty, you've seen all there is to see." But while he had grown up a city boy, Fig's Ranger training had broken him forever of the habit of making assumptions.

Raf had the same issues as the city boy, however. "Why have we been sent here to patrol? You can just look at it and see that nobody's here."

Fig smiled at him, then went back to a slow, continuous sweep from right to left of the hundred-seventy degrees he could see. "We also need to understand who _was_ here. Who might have come across the fence, what might have wandered too close to the places on base where children play, Raf."

Raf swept the area with senses his uncle did not possess, and said, "Oh, you mean the coyotes we hear up here sometimes."

"_Si. _Or that damn reporter that Optimus picked off Buzzard Rock."

Raf grinned widely. He'd had a front-row seat for that.

"Let's go," Fig said. They moved on, placing their feet and peds carefully in the treacherous, uneven rock.

Raf being Raf, he was scanning as Fig did, and also doing some fifth-order equations in his helm. These concerned the alteration of the incident angle of sunlight over time, and caused him to begin thinking about the phenomenon of sunrise, a couple of hours in the past at this point.

Then realization broke over the young Pretender like that sun coming out from behind clouds. The sun continued to come up every morning on time, a time that altered slightly every day. The local star also, in its own time, created the glorious light show of a desert sunset, every day, exactly when that was supposed to happen. The planet's own ever-changing rhythms meant that rains had come early this year, and for a while thereafter, the desert bloomed, exactly as it had for all the millennia that the area had been desert.

Exactly as it was meant to be. (Even taking into account, though Raf did not know this, some extracurricular celebration of Beltane by Chip and Mikaela.)

Everything around Raf was exactly as it was meant to be. Raf himself, in this surprising new body, was exactly as _he_ was meant to be. As he walked the land, guided by his uncle's wisdom and ready grin, he knew this was something his _curandera abuelita_ would have understood immediately.

Raf, he realized suddenly, needed more time—more sunrises, sunsets, possibly another set of spring rains—to come to terms with the changes Life had thrown at him. He also understood that this planet, this desert, this sun among them would give him all the time he needed.

He stood still for a moment to observe a pack rat as it gathered food in the shadow of a rock, and let his new knowledge settle into his processor.

"Raf? _Hijo?_"

Raf turned his helm to find _Tio_ Jorge staring at him. "Is everything all right?" the man said, coming close.

"_Si, papa,_" Raf said, using that term to Fig for the first time. "Everything is just as it should be."

They turned and walked into the future together, and got on with the job they had been given to do.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

After the brief halt of activity for colors, the base had returned to its usual early morning bustle. On the lowest level of the Cliff House, medical took up several suites of rooms, a much more spacious area than the corner of the hangar allotted to them before. They had kept what worked—a single large triage area where bots and humans both presented with whatever problems they had, and separate patient rooms and treatment areas on either side of Triage. Each healer and doctor had a private office on the level directly above.

Jazz passed by Ratchet's office on his way to the conference room that he was using as a classroom this morning, but the medic's fields were spiky with aggravation. Ratchet might have stopped throwing wrenches at patients, but pests who stuck their helms in his office uninvited were a different story. Jazz exercised the better part of valor and went on about his business.

Jazz' students were already there. Seneschal and McKuen were talking about NASCAR racing. Moonracer was talking to someone over comms. Sapphire was furiously flipping through the datapad containing their reading assignment with such frustration in her fields that she might as well be waving a sign that read "I do not understand this fragging assignment!"

That concerned Jazz. They had got through the basics of firewall coding, and the last reading assignment had concerned the natural ability of Cybertronians to code supplementary firewalls to provide additional protection in response to changing conditions as their situation required. He wasn't sure why that should be so confusing as Sapphire found it. It was something they all did, after all, and the results were self-evident even if the process was buried so deep in their OS that it worked without conscious supervision.

"Mornin', everybody."

The class returned his greeting. Moonracer ended her conversation, as the mechs left stock-car racing for another time. The three of them got out their data pads.

Jazz turned a chair backwards and landed his skidplate on it. The chair was a little tall for him, and his peds didn't reach the floor. "OK, did anyone not get to their reading assignment? Good. Who can tell me about supplementary firewalls?"

As the discussion began, it occurred to Jazz that he may have started out giving a few lectures, but somewhere along the line, he had become a teacher. Him, a teacher. Music, maybe, but psychology? How had that happened?

He soon ascertained that the older three understood the assignment, and got them started on the next chapter. Then he reviewed with Sapphire, helping her catch up to the others. Her previous education might have been lacking, but it was gratifying to both teacher and student when she did master a lesson. She wasn't afraid to work hard to get there.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Borealis spent much of her time in her nest now. Through her skylight, she could see the cloudless expanse of blue overhead, and that was enough to satisfy her sky-hunger, with her carrier protocols taking priority over everything else. Every alert added up to soon, soon, soon.

Her largest son kept pinging for ::more room, more room, more room!:: She sent a glyph for ::patience:: and he replied, every time, ::now!::

But neither she nor the bitlet would determine the precise timing of his egg's debut. That was up to the healers, who twice a day arrived to take measurements and check readouts, then sent her a glyph for ::patience.::

Like her son, she wanted to reply ::now!:: But Borealis had learned to be nice among the Autobots, as she still thought of them, and anyway, it was better all around to be polite to medics.

She tried to distract herself with a datapad, but couldn't keep her processor on the story she was trying to read. Sighing, she subspaced it, and made her ponderous way from her nest to the washracks.

No one had told her that carrying would necessitate emptying her waste tank so often, but its volume had been significantly reduced to make room for her eggs. That odious chore accomplished, she set her plating right—as much as she could, considering her eggs—and decided to sit outside for a little while, as long as the area right outside her door was still in the shade.

It was nice to watch the sky without glass in the way, and to enjoy the breeze blowing across her flight control surfaces. It would be a very nice day to fly.

::More room. NOW!::

::Soon, bitlet. Patience.::

::NOWWWWWW!:: There was a clang as he punctuated his demand with a rather hard kick.

Borealis vented another sigh. Soon, please?

Rodi pinged a cheerful hello as he emerged from the ramp into the Seekers' courtyard, and her bitlets all calmed: they liked Rodi. She sent a warm glyph of welcome.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Late in the afternoon, Optimus found Diarwen absent from their apartment. He took a moment to sense her presence. She was above him, somewhere up on the cliff top. Her state of mind was peaceful and happy, but he could also sense that she was ignoring hunger.

A quick ping to the galley retrieved the day's menu. He put in an order, and on second thought drew a second small ration of energon. If Diarwen had worked through dinner, very likely her usual partner in crime, Milestrina, had done so as well. He stopped by the galley to collect the order, then transformed to drive up the ramp out of the Cliff House through the Seekers' courtyard and finally out onto the clifftop.

A craggy, weathered rock formation created an alcove which was shaded, yet open to the desert breeze. A collection of picnic tables and outdoor furniture suited for all sizes of the base's inhabitants had quickly accumulated here, and this informal outdoors lunch room was one of Diarwen and Milestrina's favorite places to work.

He joined them, providing them with a little more shade as he soaked up some sun. He unsubspaced the food. "Since my ladies did not come to dinner, dinner has come to you."

Milestrina accepted the smaller of the two cubes with both servos, bowing over it gracefully. "Thank you, Prime. It seems mealtimes come and go very quickly when we are working."

His bondmate gave him a radiant smile. "This smells delicious, Optimus."

"How is your work coming along?"

Diarwen sighed. "My translation is nearly finished. And I must say, I am very grateful for your help, Elder Conservator. It would have taken me ages without you."

"You are very welcome, Prime Consort. I have been cataloging our collections as I add them to our new library. It is tedious work. I am happy to have the company."

Optimus opened his own energon cube. "I actually have the rest of the joor. I would be happy to help you with the cataloging, if you would like."

"Oh, splendid! This will go much more quickly with the assistance of a trained archivist. Excellion has set aside an entire sector for our library and virtual museum. I have been uploading my collections and adding them to the catalog one at a time, before organizing them for availability to everyone. Unlike an archivist, I can only work on one thread at a time. It has been a time-consuming process."

"I can imagine, but a labor of love, I should think," Optimus replied.

She smiled, and pinged him with the login information. He greeted Excellion. ::I will be helping Milestrina with the library for a little while.::

::Excellent! Thank you, Prime! I have a small collection myself, but I was waiting to see what Milestrina already has before copying anything to that sector. Burnout has a large collection of religious works that he is waiting to add, as well.::

Optimus made a note to himself to see what the medical and science bots had preserved.

He devoted a full three processor threads to the work, leaving one to monitor admin through Roller, and another to download the day's current events and sort by his list of key words. He could still maintain situational awareness and carry on a conversation while doing all those things. Only a tactician such as Prowl could maintain more simultaneous processes than an archivist.

He took a moment to familiarize himself with the work already completed. "Milestrina, this is amazing! These works—some I thought lost long ago."

Milestrina smiled. "When I knew that Cybertron could not be saved, I began to preserve everything I could. Everything I could keep in my own memory, and all that I could subspace. It shattered my spark, trying to decide what to keep and what to leave behind."

"Please, Elder Conservator, no. You have done Cybertron an incredible service. Generations to come will be Cybertronian because you have preserved our culture, our birthright, for them. We owe you a debt of gratitude that can never be expressed."

Milestrina's field radiated fulfillment. To have her life's work validated by the Prime she served satisfied the deepest levels of her ancient coding. She rose gracefully from her chair, and bowed deeply. "Thank you, Patron."

"Milestrina, you are a treasure."

Diarwen watched this exchange with a lump near her heart, and another in her throat.

Milestrina had no more returned to her seat, and her work, when they heard a door open into the Seeker's courtyard below A moment later two little helms, yellow and blue, popped up over the railing. They immediately took to the sky, playing an impromptu game of chase while they waited for their sister to join them. Barricade strolled up the ramp and shooed them over into the canyons, safely away from the base. No one wanted little Seekers' thrusters kicking up sand in their faces.

Presently, Skysong, still in her intermediate flyer, took off from the airstrip and joined in the games. A little while after that, Flareup transformed as she exited the ramp. She greeted Optimus with a warm glyph as she came up beside her mate and watched the sparklings fly.

Their bright jeweled colors against the late afternoon sky reminded Diarwen of hummingbirds. A tune began to assert itself, creating harmonies and arpeggios.

She needed to write it down or it would keep her awake all night. She hoped she had some blank music paper—but then, in this day and age, she could easily print a few new sheets as she needed them.

Optimus followed her gaze and smiled as he watched the little ones' antics.

At the same time, he scanned an article about the continuing violence in the Middle East. It had caught his attention due to the fighting's proximity to the grave of the Primes at Petra. The Jordanian government had assured him that the site, home of the ancient Nabatean people, was just as historically important to Jordan as it was to the the Cybertronians. He had hoped to let the ancients of his people rest in peace in the place that they had chosen, and hallowed with their sacrifice, but he would not risk the lives of any of his people guarding a grave site. If the fighting seemed as though it would reach Petra, he resolved to move the remains of the Primes to a safer place. It could be done quietly, and a holographic memorial left at the site.

He resolved to worry about that later. Peace settled on his pauldrons like a caress, and Optimus Prime, for the first time in far too many vorn, let war slip from him to treasure the moment.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

_From the journals of Optimus Prime:_

_I later looked back upon that evening as the start of a new age for the People of Cybertron. We had taken a precarious first few steps into it, for we still relied heavily upon the charity of this fractious young race who became, by the will of Primus and of the Great Mother Earth, our sisters and brothers. At the time, none of us had any idea of the challenges and trials— and triumphs—that awaited us as we began to take our first hesitant steps toward reclaiming the stars._

_But, above all, we had hope. A little more than an Earth year ago, I stood on a bridge amid the ruins of Chicago with my brother and my mentor deactivated at my peds, by my own servo. I ended our great war, but at the time, believing the All-Spark lost to us, I saw nothing ahead for my kind except a slow descent into oblivion. Instead, Primus granted us a new beginning, full of promise for the sparks here, and for those waiting in the Well of All Sparks too._

_We had a temple. Primus was with us. And now, we were creating a library, seed for a university that we hoped would blossom in time into a center of Cybertronian culture and learning. Milestrina spoke of her plans for a school for Conservators, and told me of a few promising younglings to whom she intended to offer apprenticeships._

_As for government, I was no longer the only Prime. Primus raised up a human to speak for his kind on the Council, marking the organics as our equals and partners. And, in young Hot Rod, we had the promise of future Primes to come—Sam and I were not to be the last._

_Without a home of our own, as yet, Cybertron took root in the desert, and began to thrive. My call to the People still traveled out through the stars and through the distant remains of the space bridge system. More survivors would gather one by one, each bringing a few shards of our old culture and something to contribute to the new. With my Consort at my side and my People around me, I gave thanks to Primus for peace at last, and waited to welcome them._

-End-

[AN: So ends this arc of the Sidhe Chronicles, A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime. Thank you for reading. The series will continue in the eleventh volume of the Sidhe Chronicles. My co-writer and I hope that it will not be another year before that story is published, and beg your indulgence. We have found that we can write quickly, or to the best of our ability, and we prefer to do our best to write well. We look forward to seeing you again when Sidhe Chronicles 11 is ready to publish. /AN]


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